DUKE 
UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/autobiographyoff01turn 


THE 

UTOBIOGRAP 

FAILURE 


By  Harry  Turner 


THE 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
OF  A  FAILURE 

By  HARRY  TURNER 


PRICE     ONE  DOLLAR 


rVC\  nhr 


Jfamttori 


I  submitted  the  manuscript  of  this  abbreviated  memoir  to  the 
President  of  the  Board  of  Governors  of  the  New  Saint  Louis 
Country  Club,  in  order  that  any  inaccuracies  occurring  therein 
might  be  called  to  my  attention.  The  manuscript  was  held  for  a 
month  by  that  body  and  then  returned  to  me  without  comment. 

Observation :  There  is  a  chasm  between  dumbness  and 
silence,  in  fact,  the  two  are  antitheses.  Under  which  head  the 
muteness  of  the  Board  comes,  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  able  to  say. 
Should  I  allege  that  their  taciturnity  was  caused  by  dumbness, 
they  will  hold  dumbly  that  silence  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  and 
they  are  bound  to  be  right  lor  they  are  ten  to  one,  and  the  ma- 
jority is  always  right  in  a  Democracy. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  if  some  one  had  written  as  frankly  about 
himself  as  I  have  written  about  myself  in  this  memoir,  I  should 
certainly  buy  his  book.  It  would  be  necessary  to  buy  it,  for 
one  would  never  be  able  to  get  it  from  the  library-,  on  account  of 
the  demand,  even  if  the  library  had  it.  Were  it  not  for  its 
frankness,  I  shouldn't  recommend  it  to  a  friend — if  I  possessed 
one.  Like  the  political  orator,  whose  name  a  negro  voter  could 
not  remember,  but  about  whom  the  latter  remarked,  nevertheless, 
that  he  had  ''certainly  given  himself  a  mighty  fine  recommenda- 
tion," I  have  done  my  best.  If  you  do  not  think  that  I  am  all 
right  after  reading  this  book,  you're  prejudiced,  that's  all. 

To  be  able  to  make  money  out  of  a  situation  as  herein  de- 
scribed by  selling  a  book  about  it,  is  forever  to  dispose  of  the  only 
charge  that  I  have  heard  made  against  me,  viz. :  that  I  am  not  "a 
good  business  man." 


"Woe  unto  the  happy,  full-blooded  aristocrat!  Mental  and 
physical  cripples  will  overpower  him  by  sheer  force  of  numbers 
—they  will  even  invent  a  hell  for  him,  a  place  of  eternal  torment." 

— Friedrich  Nietzsche. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Having  learned  so  much  that  I  now  know  nothing,  I  shall 
proceed  to  write  a  book. 

In  order  that  the  following  story  may  be  comprehensible, 
it  is  necessary  that  I  preface  it  with  some  facts  about  myself; 
where  I  came  from,  who  I  am  and  what  I  have  done  with  myself 
to  date. 

I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  what  I  am  about  to  recite  will  be 
interesting.  I  write  it  as  I  have  written  most  things,  merely  as 
a  cure  for  nervousness.  I  am  far  too  cynical  to  think  that  my 
statement  of  the  case  will  convert  anyone  to  my  view  of  it, 
and  I  am  far  too  tired  of  the  subject  to  care  whether  it  does  or 
not.  I  have  discovered,  however,  that  if  I  write  a  thing  that 
is  on  my  mind,  or  that  is  puzzling  me,  it  seems  to  shift  the 
burden,  and  I  can  go  on  and  think  of  something  else. 

I  was  born  in  either  1875  or  76  at  Normandy,  Missouri, 
on  Christmas  day.  I  have  never  been  able  to  determine  defi- 
nitely in  which  of  the  two  years  the  overpowering  event  oc- 
curred. Some  members  of  my  family  have  said  one  year  and 
some  another,  and  naturally  my  own  memory  would  be  un- 
reliable in  a  matter  of  that  sort.  I  have  never  regarded  the 
accuracy  of  the  date  as  of  sufficient  importance  to  warrant  an 
exhaustive  investigation.  That  one  is  here  in  the  world 
through  no  fault  of  his  own  is  the  important  thing;  the  date  of 
the  incident  is  a  trivial  matter. 

To  those  who  object  to  the  liberal  use  of  the  pronoun  I, 
and  to  those  who  believe  that  psychanalysis  is  a  repellant  form 
of  egotism,  I  would  say  that  they  had  best  proceed  no  further. 
As  for  myself,  I  am  always  interested  to  hear  a  person  discourse 
about  himself  without  affectation  or  concealment,  for  I  assume 
that  he  knows  something  of  his  subject,  and  it  is  extremely 
doubtful  if  that  can  be  said  when  he  allows  himself  the  luxury 
of  discussing  others  for  true  psychologists  are  rarae  aves.  In 
fact,  I  think  that  most  of  the  evils  of  the  world  come  from  mis- 
understanding, and  misunderstanding  comes  largely  from  a 
false  conception  of  the  meaning  of  modesty.  We  are  all  afraid 
to  reveal  ourselves  as  we  are.  We  go  on  through  life  conceal- 
ing with  great  pains  our  worst  and  our  best  thoughts,  but  prin- 
cipally the  latter,  until  one  day  we  see  a  play  or  read  a  book 
in  which  some  artist  has  stripped  us  naked,  torn  away  our  mask, 
and  held  us  up  to  view,  and  we  blush  and  are  ashamed  and 
mutter  that  the  play  is  overdrawn,  or  that  the  book  is  untrue 
to  life,  or  that  the  artist  is  a  sentimentalist.  With  our  dying 
breaths  we  will  protest  that  we  are  not  what  we  are. 

I  am  intensely  interested  in  myself.  I  am  a  never-ending 
source  of  surprise  to  myself.    The  study  and  analysis  of  my  own 


moods  keep  me  quite  well  occupied.  No  doubt  that  is  egotism, 
but  it  is  the  truth,  which  is  more  important,  and  besides  if  one  is  not 
an  egotist,  what  sense  is  there  in  life  at  all?  In  fact,  to  be  inter- 
ested in  someone  else,  on  the  theory  that  the  other  will  reciprocate, 
is  superlative  egotism. 

I  cannot  remember  a  time  when  I  was  not  in  love,  or 
thought  I  was,  and  so  I  can  say,  in  a  general  way,  that  all  my 
life  has  been  divided  between  thinking  of  some  woman  or 
other,  and  self  analysis.  However,  there  has  hardly  been  a  pe- 
riod since  I  finished  school  that  I  have  not  been  engaged  in  some 
business,  but  I  always  regarded  business  as  a  conventional  sort 
of  thing  that  had  to  be  endured,  for  some  reason  which  I  had  not 
fathomed,  and  I  generally  managed  it  with  the  little  finger  of  my 
left  hand. 

When  I  say  that  my  interests  were  divided  between  some 
woman  and  myself,  I  do  not  mean  that  quite  literally,  nor  that 
I  spent  all  of  my  time  gazing  at  my  own  belly,  like  a  Chinese 
God,  or  in  performing  psychological  vivisection  on  some  speci- 
men of  femininity,  but  I  mean  that  literature,  the  theatre,  music, 
nature,  everything  that  attracted  me,  I  realized  at  bottom  led 
back  to  me  or  to  a  woman,  and  not  necessarily  to  a  woman 
sexually  considered.  There  is  nothing  interesting  in  sex  to  me 
— in  the  abstract — although  I  see  nothing  wrong  in  it.  It  is 
no  different  in  man  than  in  the  lower  animals  (or  shouldn't  be), 
and  as  a  subject  for  study  it  is  quickly  exhausted.  The  Latins 
said  all  there  was  to  be  said  about  sex,  long  before  the  Anglo- 
Saxons  discovered  its  existence.  But  the  soul  of  a  woman  is  the 
most  fascinating,  absorbing,  never-ending  interest  a  man  can 
have,  and  I  think  the  most  legitimate. 

Part  of  my  education  was  received  in  a  Catholic  College. 
I  know  priests.  It  is  possible  they  believe  the  things  they 
teach.    It  is  not  possible  that  I  could.    I  am  not  a  Catholic. 

When  I  was  sixteen  years  old,  I  went  to  Colorado  and  en- 
tered the  railroad  business  as  a  clerk  in  the  auditor's  office. 
Whether  it  was  my  superior  ability  or  a  certain  "pull"  that 
did  it,  I  have  never  cared  to  decide  even  for  myself,  but  in  less 
than  a  year  I  became  General  Manager's  secretary. 

Railroading  in  Colorado  was  an  interesting  life  in  those 
days.  The  operation  of  the  road  was  dangerous  and  exciting, 
and  outside  of  the  office  there  was  also  romance  and  to  spare. 
Colorado  was  the  scene  of  my  first  love  affair.  I  was  seventeen. 
She,  of  course,  was  much  older  and  married,  and  very  beauti- 
ful and  all  that.  I  should  not  care  to  see  her  now.  One  should 
hold  to  one's  illusions  if  possible.  I  don't  know  but  that  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  for  every  boy  of  seventeen  if  he  could  have  a 
love  affair  with  a  married  woman  of  thirty  and  be  discarded  by 
her.  It  fits  him  for  life  far  more  quickly  and  inexpensively 
than  the  usual  method  of  getting  married,  or  going  through 
college.  Toward  the  end  of  my  third  year  in  Colorado,  the 
General  Manager  was  caught  robbing  the  company,  by  means 
of  a  system  of  rebates  to  shippers;  that  is,  the  road  was  charged 

—6— 


with  the  rebates  and  the  shippers  never  received  them,  or  re- 
ceived only  part  of  them.  There  was  no  prosecution,  because 
both  the  shippers  and  the  railroads  were  engaged  in  rebate 
transactions,  which  were  criminal  offenses  against  the  laws. 
The  General  Manager  was  also  implicated  in  a  system  of  carry- 
ing straw  men  on  the  payrolls,  but  I  do  not  believe  he  ever 
received  the  "profits,"  for  I,  as  his  secretary,  would  have  known 
it.  At  any  rate  another  man  was  convicted  and  got  ten  years' 
sentence  and  was  pardoned  in  two.  I  have  often  wondered 
what  the  effect  would  have  been  on  me  of  this  experience  had 
I  been  seriously  intent  on  becoming  a  successful  business  man. 
I  imagine  I  should  have  become  either  completely  discouraged 
or  a  great  crook.    What  a  pity  I  was  not  more  serious ! 

After  the  expose,  the  General  Manager  "resigned,"  and  a? 
is  customary,  I  did  too,  and  came  to  St.  Louis,  where  I  became 
secretary  to  the  General  Manager  of  one  of  the  large  trunk 
lines.  I  held  this  position  for  two  years  and  until  that  gentle- 
man suspected  that  I  had  conveyed  information  to  his  wife 
regarding  his  numerous  amours  along  the  line  from  Texas  to 
Colorado.  I  was  not  guilty.  In  fact,  I  have  never  been  guilty 
of  anything  like  that;  it  would  have  been  a  sin  against  my 
nature,  but  I  was  weary  of  the  position  anyway,  and  felt  that 
I  would  as  lief  be  the  scape-goat  as  to  see  someone  else  lose 
his  position,  who  no  doubt  needed  it,  and  so  I  resigned. 

As  I  look  back  on  it  now,  I  think  those  two  years  were 
perhaps  the  most  profitable  in  my  life  from  an  experience  stand- 
point (and  what  other  is  there?).  It  cannot  be  denied,  too,  that 
there  is  a  certain  fascination  in  the  railroad  business,  if  one  is  in 
position  to  regard  it  romantically.  Even  in  being  a  general  man- 
ager's secretary,  there  is  a  feeling  of  power,  and  a  certain  sort 
of  satisfaction,  that  I  have  never  been  able  to  analyze.  There  is  a 
pleasure  in  giving  an  order  and  seeing  it  carried  out  down  to  the 
last  man  in  an  organization  of  ten  thousand.  I  do  not  know  but 
that  my  position  was  as  interesting  as  any  in  the  service.  I  was  in 
touch  with  every  department  of  the  road  and  in  confidential  rela- 
tions with  the  "'visible  head  of  the  church  on  earth"  ;  and  was  in  a 
place  to  see  all  that  transpired,  without  suffering  from  a  feeling  of 
responsibility,  that  of  necessity  goes  with  the  office  of  general 
manager. 

There  are  no  end  of  amusing  incidents  constantly  occur- 
ring in  a  big  railroad  organization.  There  are  thrills,  too,  such 
as^  one  gets  when  a  rush  message  comes  into  the  office  to  the 
effect  that  Coxey's  army  has  stolen  a  freight  train  at  Pueblo 
and  is  coming  East  at  a  terrific  rate,  with  no  orders,  and  the 
cars  filled  with  "wean-  Willies."  I  remember  my  admiration 
for  the  General  Manager  went  up  several  points  that  morning, 
as  I  saw  him  read  that  message,  realize  at  once  what  it  meant, 
and  rush  to  the  telegraph  key,  where  he  personally  handled  the 
whole  situation.  The  division  superintendent  had,  of  course, 
sidetracked  all  trains  and  the  trick  was  to  catch  Coxey.  The 
''Old  Man"  hesitated  a  moment,  while  he  held  the  line  open. 


and  then  he  began  to  telegraph  as  though  he  were  sending 
Associated  Press  stuff  and  was  afraid  they  would  take  the  line 
away  from  him  before  he  got  it  all  over.  About  two  hours 
later  he  got  word  that  Coxey  and  his  army  had  deserted  the 
train  and  taken  to  their  heels.  What  the  "Old  Man"  had  done 
was  to  telegraph  to  two  water  tanks  ahead  of  the  stolen  train,  in- 
structing the  agents  to  drain  the  tanks.  At  the  third  station 
there  was  a  tank  that  had  been  abandoned  on  account  of  alkali 
water.    Here  was  where  the  Coxey  engine  replenished  its  supply. 

For  those  who  are  not  versed  in  such  matters,  I  will  explain 
that  alkali  creates  a  foam  in  the  boiler  of  an  engine  that  puts 
it  out  of  commission  as  effectively,  or  more  so,  than  if  there 
was  no  water  at  all ;  even  a  fresh  tank  will  foam  for  awhile. 

It  was  clever  work  to  regain  possession  of  the  line  and  the 
train  without  a  wreck  or  a  fight,  and  the  General  Manager's 
prompt  action  showed  how  clearly  he  carried  that  five  thousand 
miles  of  railroad  in  his  head.  Were  it  not  for  this  ability,  or  gift, 
I  should  have  nothing  but  contempt  for  this  man,  for  in  every 
other  sense  he  was  very  small. 

There  is  something  about  a  railroad  that  makes  grafting 
seem  legitimate.  If  there  was  anyone  on  this  line  that  was  not 
"getting  his,"  I  cannot  think  of  him  right  now.  One  of  my 
duties  was  the  countersigning  of  passes.  We  had  a  general 
superintendent's  chief  clerk  who,  it  seemed  to  me,  issued  a  great 
deal  of  free  transportation  to  "roadmaster's  wives."  On  one 
occasion  I  discovered  that  one  "roadmaster's  wife"  had  traveled 
from  a  point  in  Arkansas  (a  well-known  health  resort)  at  the 
same  time  she  was  supposed  to  be  returning.  So,  acting  en- 
tirely without  malice,  but  merely  to  show  a  proper  attention 
to  duty,  I  wrote  a  letter  to  the  chief  clerk  requesting  an  explana- 
tion, and  asked  the  "Old  Man"  to  sign  it  personally,  which  he 
did,  and  wrote  on  the  bottom  of  it,  "We  want  'Quid  pro  Con* 
for  every  pass  issued  from  your  office."  He  was  very  fond  of 
Latin  phrases,  and  got  them  off  on  all  occasions  very  much  as 
a  parrot  would,  always  inaccurately  and  with  no  distinct  idea 
of  their  meaning.  The  answer  from  the  Chief  Clerk  came  ad- 
dressed to  me.  It  was  "Peccavi,  Peccavi."  "That  means,"  said  the 
General  Manager  when  I  showed  it  to  him,  "that  my  orders  were 
received  and  understood." 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  replied,  and  the  incident  was  closed. 

These  railroad  experiences  have  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  "central  theme"  of  this  tale,  except  insofar  as  they 
may  have  influenced  me  in  forsaking  a  business  career,  and  I 
will  relate  only  a  few  more  of  them  and  then  pass  on. 

Among  my  other  duties  it  fell  to  me  to  order  supplies  to 
stock  private  cars.  Whenever  an  order  was  placed  I  invariably 
received  a  box  of  cigars  from  the  grocer,  and  always  the  butcher 
remembered  me  at  Thanksgiving,  Christmas  and  other  days  set 
aside  for  feasting  and  merriment,  with  a  turkey  or  a  few  prairie 
chickens  or  some  other  delicacy,  but  that  it  was  grafting  never 

—8— 


occurred  to  me.  In  fact,  I  don't  think  the  word  was  used  in 
that  connection  in  those  days. 

I  recall  having  gone  home  on  one  occasion  (I  lived  then 
at  Normandy  in  St.  Louis  County)  to  spend  Sunday.  About 
eleven  that  night,  after  everyone  had  retired,  a  messenger  came 
from  the  city  with  a  letter  for  me  from  our  chief  clerk,  saying 
that  the  President  of  the  Railroad  Company  (who  was  on  his 
way  from  New  York  to  Omaha,  and  thence  to  Buffalo  Bill's 
ranch  in  Nebraska,  where  a  hunting  expedition  had  been  planned) 
had  suddenly  changed  his  mind  at  Detroit,  would  reach  St.  Louis 
at  seven  in  the  morning  and  desired  to  leave  for  the  South  as 
soon  thereafter  as  possible. 

It  was  eleven-thirty  when  I  had  finished  reading  the  letter. 
It  meant  a  special  train,  composed  of  engine,  commissary  car, 
vice  president's,  general  manager's  and  general  superintendent's 
cars,  and  that  they  would  all  have  to  be  cleaned  and  stocked, 
the  train  made  up  and  in  the  station,  ready  to  go,  by  seven 
A.  M. 

I  gave  the  messenger  who  had  brought  the  letter  the  ad- 
dresses of  all  the  cooks  and  porters — I  had  them  in  my  head 
fortunately — and  told  him  to  have  them  meet  me  at  the  grocer's, 
as  near  one  o'clock  as  possible,  and  then  I  sent  him  away  on  the 
last  train  returning  to  the  city. 

After  that  I  dressed,  and,  in  the  meantime  a  horse  had  been 
hitched  to  a  buggy  for  me,  and  I  drove  in  to  town  where  I  could 
get  a  telephone.  Here  I  called  up  the  superintendent  of  motive 
power,  and  got  him  out  of  bed.  I  impressed  on  him  the  urgency 
of  getting  our  regular  engine  and  crew  and  the  balance  of  the 
train  in  readiness  and  backed  into  the  station  at  seven  o'clock. 

"Why  the  two-sixty-four  is  pulling  number  three  and  left 
here  at  nine  tonight,"  he  said. 

"Where  is  she  now?"  I  asked. 

"Somewhere  about  S  ,"  he  answered. 

"Well,  wire  the  agent  there  to  turn  her  back  and  let  num- 
ber three  grab  a  freight  engine  somewhere." 

"All  right,"  he  said,  and  hung  up  the  receiver. 

I  then  called  up  the  butcher  and  grocer  at  their  respective 
homes,  and  explained  the  situation.  They  agreed  to  go  to  their 
stores  and  open  them,  and  to  get  wagons  to  haul  the  supplies  to 
the  station. 

Fortunately  all  the  negro  cooks  and  porters  were  on  hand, 
and  helped  load  the  wagons.  At  six-thirty  we  were  at  Union 
Station,  but  the  train  had  not  yet  backed  in.  The  wagons  were 
driven  through  the  Twentieth  street  entrance,  and  then  we 
found  we  could  not  get  out  of  the  midway  to  the- tracks,  without 
tearing  out  a  part  of  the  iron  fence  that  separates  them,  so  this 
was  done,  and  the  procession  of  wagons  drove  out  and  lined  up 
alongside  of  track  twenty-two.  A  few  minutes  later  the  Special 
backed  slowly  in.  Immediately  a  small  army  of  car  cleaners 
was  at  work  inside  and  outside  and  on  the  roof  like  a  swarm 
of  flies,  and  in  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  the  cars  were  cleaned 
and  ready  to  stock. 

—9— 


The  train  from  the  East,  luckily,  was  twenty  minutes  late,, 
due  to  hauling  the  heavy  car  of  the  President.  I  hoped  against 
hope  that  it  might  be  further  delayed  in  the  yards,  for  it  was 
apparent  that  it  was  not  humanly  possible  to  stock  four  cars  in 
the  time  before  us,  but  the  President's  train  pulled  in  just 
twenty  minutes  late. 

Mike,  our  engineer,  was  grouchily  oiling  around.  He  had 
been  up  all  night.  "What  the  hell  does  this  mean,  and  where 
are  we  going?"  he  asked  me  as  I  came  up  to  him.  "Ask  me 
something  easy,"  I  replied.  "We  are  going  South,  that's  all 
I  know." 

The  train  from  the  East  had  now  discharged  its  passengers 
and  had  pulled  out,  after  cutting  off  the  President's  car.  Our 
"Special"  then  ran  out  beyond  the  signal  tower  and  backed  down 
"on  to"  the  big  yellow  car  from  New  York.  In  the  meantime 
it  was  necessary  for  the  wagons  to  drive  around  to  track  twenty- 
one.  Here  the  cooks  and  porters  and  helpers  were  pitching 
boxes  and  bottles  and  packages  as  fast  as  they  could,  as  I  came 
up.  Just  at  this  juncture,  the  President  appeared  on  the  plat- 
form of  his  car,  in  dressing  gown  and  smoking  a  cigar.  "Why 
aren't  we  off?"  he  asked,  and  then,  "What  are  those  wagons 
doing  there?  Those  things  should  be  attended  to  at  the  proper 
time." 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  said, — which  is  the  correct  form  to  use  in  ad- 
dressing a  superior. 

The  anti-climax  of  the  situation  struck  me  as  being  amus- 
ing, and  I  looked  at  the  conductor  and  smiled.  He  winked  at 
me,  and  then  raising  his  right  hand,  gave  the  signal,  and  we 
pulled  slowly  out  of  the  yards,  with  about  half  of  the  supplies 
still  in  the  wagons. 

We  learned  during  the  course  of  the  day  that  we  were 
bound  for  Texas  where  the  President  wished  to  do  some  shoot- 
ing, and  that  we  were  expected  to  run  three  hundred  and  fifty- 
two  miles  before  dark.  We  did  it,  but  the  fireman  fainted  with 
exhaustion  and  his  place  had  to  be  taken  by  the  train  porter. 

"Those  things  should  be  attended  to  at  the  proper  time," 
kept  running  through  my  head  all  that  day.  I  wondered  why 
I  gave  myself  so  much  trouble.  The  hundred  .and  fifty  dollars 
a  month  was  of  no  importance  to  me.  Apparently  one's  efforts 
are  of  importance  only  to  oneself.  The  more  I  reflected  on  it, 
the  sillier  I  felt.  The  absurdity  of  working,  of  giving  oneself 
endless  trouble,  except  when  it  was  the  only  means  of  pre- 
serving life — seemed  as  plain  as  a  pike  staff.  The  utter  fatuity 
of  the  whole  expedition  was  borne  in  on  me  that  night.  Here 
we  were,  a  small  army  of  men,  operating  a  special  train  costing 
well  over  two  thousand  dollars  a  day,  that  the  President  might 
kill  a  few  birds  and  other  things  in  Texas.  There  -were  two 
guards  patrolling  the  train  that  night,  with  Winchesters  slung 
over  their  shoulders.  I  met  them  as  I  returned  from  the  tele- 
graph office  and  I  had  to  explain  who  I  was.  I  made  up  my 
mind  later  as  I  lay  in  bed  thinking,  that  there  was  really  very 
little  deference  between  being  conspicuously  rich  and  being  on 

—10— 


the  rock  pile,  for,  in  both  circumstances,  one  is  guarded  by  men 
with  Winchesters.  I  felt  what  kttle  ambition  I  had  oozing,  and 
some  three  weeks  later,  when  the  general  manager  voiced  his 
suspicions  about  my  having  carried  tales  to  his  wife,  I  wras  too 
tired  of  the  whole  business  to  deny  it,  and  thus  ended  a  most 
promising  career  as  a  railroad  magnate. 

I  never  will  know  what  induced  me  to  go  into  the  stock 
brokerage  business.  I  met  a  friend  at  lunch  one  day,  and  that 
afternoon  I  was  a  broker.  Stock  brokerage  is  either  farce-com- 
edy or  tragedy,  depending  on  how  yon  look  at  it.  I  was  ex- 
pected, as  a  broker,  to  go  up  to  a  customer  who  was  studying 
the  board,  and  advise  him  to  buy  or  sell  a  certain  stock,  about 
which  I  didn't  know,  or  couldn't  know,  more  than  the  man  in 
the  moon.  I  didn't  mind  doing  it,  but  to  ask  me  to  keep  a 
straight  face  was  too  much.  I  always  expected  the  customer 
to  say:  "Why  don't  you  buy  it?"  but  none  ever  did.  Perhaps 
that  wouldn't  be  ethical,  in  the  stock  brokerage  business. 

The  tragic  part  of  the  game  is,  so  far  as  my  observation 
went,  that  everyone  who  speculates  eventually  loses,  and  often 
embezzles.  I  remember  visiting  the  insane  asylum  at  Farm- 
ington,  Mo.,  a  year  or  more  after  concluding  my  Wall  street 
career,  and  seeing  one  of  our  ex-customers,  who  had  "gone 
broke"  in  the  office.  He  had  been  a  very  well-knowm  "society 
man."  When  I  saw  him  he  was  stark  naked,  and  the  attendants 
said  clothes  could  not  be  kept  on  him  ;  that  he  tore  them  into 
strips,  and  that  he  imagined  the  strips  were  ticker  tape  and 
that  lie  was  reading  quotations.  He's  dead  now.  I  didn't  like 
the  brokerage  business  at  all. 

I  tried  real  estate  after  that.  This  is  a  business  in  which 
you  sell  your  goods  for  one  price  and  put  another  in  the  deed 
which  you  advertise  in  the  papers  as  the  correct  price.  When 
you  are  not  doing  this  you  are  engaged  in  the  congenial  task  of 
evicting  tenants  who  can't  pay  the  rent,  or  foreclosing  mort- 
gages.   I  didn't  enthuse  over  the  real  estate  business. 

And  so  I  gave  up  a  commercial  career,  not  because  I  found 
it  all  crooked,  not  that  I  wouldn't  have  stolen  "success"  merrily 
and  cruelly  as  the  rest  of  them  were  doing,  had  it  been  neces- 
sary, but  simply  because  it  seemed  to  me  the  quintessence  of 
stupidity  to  go  against  one's  nature  when  there  was  no  pressing 
need  for  it. 

By  way  of  amusement,  after  a  year  or  two  of  idleness  (I 
think  it  was  in  the  summer  of  1889),  I  purchased  in  a  little  town 
in  Massachusetts,  a  Stanley  steam  carriage.  It  was  the  first  auto- 
mobile the  people  of  St.  Louis  or  I  had  ever  seen,  and  naturally 
it  attracted  much  attention  on  the  streets.  It  led  finally  to  my 
taking  an  agency  for  the  manufacturer  and  opening  a  small 
store.  I  wanted  something  to  do,  and  this  did  not  seem  to  be  a 
legitimate  business.  I  thought  at  first  it  would  be  merely 
something  to  occupy  my  time.  It  was  perfectly  marvelous 
how  those  things  sold.  Sober,  solid  business  men  wrould  jour- 
ney up  to  my  little  store  on  Twelfth  street  and  pay  seven  or 

—IX— 


eight  hundred  dollars  for  a  toy  that  was  not  only  useless  but 
was  positively  dangerous.  Truly,  "men  are  but  children  of  a 
larger  growth." 

Before  I  knew  it  I  was  in  business  again  and  up  to  my  ears. 
So  fast  did  the  trade  increase  that  I  was  forced  to  move  up  town 
into  larger  quarters.  Then  the  gasoline  car  came.  I  think  I 
was  the  first  local  possessor  of  one  of  these  devil's  devices  of 
the  present  accepted  standard,  viz. :  vertical  cylinders  and  slid- 
ing gear  transmission.  And  still  the  business  grew  and  grew 
until  it  got  to  be  a  horrible  bore. 

About  this  time  one  of  my  most  intimate  friends  purchased 
a  car  from  me,  and  a  week  or  so  later  telephoned  to  the  garage 
one  night  to  have  the  machine  sent  to  his  house.  The  man  in 
charge  reported  over  the  'phone  that  the  car  was  out,  where- 
upon my  friend  assumed  that  I,  and  one  Edgar  Lackland,  were 
"joy  riding"  in  the  same,  and  gave  the  police  instructions  to  ar- 
rest us  on  sight.  The  fact  was  that  Edgar  and  I  were  passing 
a  week  end  at  the  Illini  Yacht  Club,  above  Alton,  and  were 
surprised  to  receive  the  papers  containing  accounts  of  our  dis- 
appearance with  the  gentleman's  automobile.  It  turned  out 
that  the  garage  foreman  had  made  an  error  and  did  not  know  the 
car  referred  to,  which  was  all  the  while  reposing  peacefully  on 
the  garage  floor.  My  friend  hastened  to  make  amend  by  going 
to  the  newspapers  and  withdrawing  his  charge,  which  he  said 
had  been  made  in  the  way  of  a  joke.  However,  this  amend 
turned  out  to  be  more  disastrous  than  the  injury,  for  it  adver- 
tised the  fact  that  our  garage  was  an  unreliable  place  in  which 
to  keep  one's  property,  and  of  course  all  clever  people  saw 
through  the  apology  as  being  merely  the  desire  of  a  friend  to 
help  me  out.  Our  esteemed  competitors  nursed  this  view  and 
it  became  quite  general.  Our  attorney  suggested  a  suit  for 
damages,  but  I  could  not  see  what  good  the  money  would  do 
me,  as  I  should  only  have  spent  it  on  my  friend  from  whom  it 
had  been  obtained,  in  an  effort  to  regain  his  friendship,  which  I 
then  did,  and  do  now,  value  more  highly  than  a  few  dollars. 

Incidents  like  these  and  frequent  arrests  for  speeding  by  a 
single  officer  who  was  irritated  with  us  because  we  persisted  in 
trying  to  collect  a  bill  of  fifty-four  dollars  for  repairs  to  an  auto- 
mobile owned  by  this  gentleman  (his  name  was  Ferguson), 
caused  us  to  be  looked  upon  with  suspicion  by  our  bankers.  Finally 
the  president  of  the  bank  (a  gentleman  of  Jewish  blood,  but  not 
a  bad  fellow  by  any  means)  "called"  us.  I,  in  turn,  called  his  at- 
tention to  the  fact  that  he  had  charged  us  one  per  cent  for  the 
use  of  money  for  ten  days,  which  was  at  the  rate  of  thirty-six 
per  cent  cr  over  for  the  year  and  somewhat  in  excess  of  the 
figure  permitted  by  law,  whereupon  the  said  banker  asked  me 
if  I  "couldn't  take  a  joke." 

Now,  I  do  not  claim  to  possess  any  great  amount  of  humor, 
and  so  the  jokes  of  my  friends  and  my  banker  began  to  bore 
me.  They  were  what  one  might  call  impractical  jokes,  which  are 
worse  than  the  other  kind,  and  so  after  starting  a  motor  bus 

—12— 


line  across  the  river,  a  trucking  company  and  a  corporation 
which  introduced  the  taxicab  to  St.  Louis  (an  offense,  by  the 
way,  for  which  I  should  have  been  banished),  I  betook  myself  to 
the  woods  of  Northern  New  York,  in  the  Adirondack  Mountains, 
where  I  remained  all  summer,  excommunicado. 

On  my  return  home  in  the  Fall,  I  discovered  that  my 
manager  had,  in  my  absence,  expanded  still  further,  and  that  my 
little  Stanley  steam  carriage  had  grown  into  a  sort  of  American 
Car  and  Foundry  Company.  I  felt  sure  there  was  a  catch  in  it 
somewhere.  It  came  out  the  day  after  my  return,  in  the  form 
of  a  number  of  unpaid  accounts  and  other  obligations  which  I 
was  supposed  to  personally  care  for,  but  which  I  had  had  none 
of  the  fun  of  incurring;  also  I  discovered  that  some  of  our  rich 
patrons  were  not  paying  their  bills  with  that  alacrity  that  might 
be  expected  from  the  owrner  of  a  hundred  thousand  dollar  home 
in  Portland  or  Westmoreland  Place. 

Now,  I  do  not  believe  in  corporations.  It  seems  to  me  that 
every  individual  should  be  responsible  for  his  acts,  business  or 
personal,  but  then  I  did  not  make  the  laws.  I  tried  con- 
scientiously for  three  days  to  sell  the  business,  but  all  of  the 
people  who  had  been  anxious  to  get  in  were  now  of  another 
mind.  It  would  have  been  an  excellent  thing  for  anyone  who 
was  ambitious  to  have  bought,  but  I  have  found  that  there  is 
nothing  so  rare  in  the  world  as  individual  judgment.  It  was 
impossible  to  convince  anyone  that  I  had  no  ambition  to  be  a 
"captain  of  industry,"  and  that  was  why  I  wished  to  sell.  They 
were  too  smart  to  believe  that.  If  one  wants  to  get  out  of 
business  in  America  it  must  be  because  he  has  to.  To  wish  to 
do  anyuiing  but  eat,  drink,  grab  and  breed  is  an  indication  of 
weakened  mentally. 

I  was  never  in  doubt  as  to  the  wonderful  proportions  the 
automobile  industrv  would  reach.  I  remember  one  evening: 
some  eight  or  ten  years  ago  discussing  the  subject  with  Mr. 
Fred  Lehmann.  among  others,  in  Fausts'  Cafe.  I  made  the  state- 
ment that  within  ten  years  the  horse  would  be  the  exception. 
I  vizualized  the  motor  truck,  the  taxi-cab,  the  motor  bus  and 
gasoline  farm  machinery.  The  other  members  of  the  party- 
were  so  disgusted  with  me  as  to  be  unable  to  conceal  it,  but 
Mr.  Lehmann  was  politely  skeptical,  and.  as  a  lesson  to  me  for 
the  future  in  the  matter  of  spinning  cobwebs,  we  all,  at  his  sug- 
gestion, got  into  my  automobile  and  journeyed  to  his  home  in 
South  St.  Louis,  although  it  was  nearly  two  in  the  morning. 
There,  after  quite  a  search.  Mr.  Lehmann  located  the  object  of 
the  journey,  a  water  color  by  Cruikshank.  done  in  the  time  of 
Dickens,  showing  a  number  of  horses  turned  out  to  pasture, 
and  a  steam  omnibus  passing  on  the  highway.  It  was  called 
"The  Passing  of  the  Horse."    Still  I  learned  no  lesson  from  it. 

While  I  regard  money  beyond  one's  needs  for  the  simnlest 
sort  of  a  life  as  a  more  or  less  imaginary  thing,  and  success 
as  purely  a  question  of  what  one's  individual  definition  of  the 
word  is,  I  can  still  understand  how-  one  must  pursue  those  wiH- 

—13— 


o-the~wisps  as  long  as  they  appear  to  him  to*  be  real  and  desir- 
able things.  The  differences  in  men  are  largely  differences  in 
their  imaginative  qualities.  For  instance,  the  philosopher  can? 
reason  that  war  in  a  mechanical  age  is  a  stupid  and  cruel  thing,, 
and  requires  nothing  but  his  imagination  to  arrive  at  that  con- 
clusion. The  unimaginative  person,  however,  must  actually 
see  an  aeroplane  in  action  and  vizualize  its  power  of  destruc- 
tion, before  he  can  appreciate  the  futility  of  wholesale  murder 
in  the  name  of  the  flag  or  of  patriotism. 

However,  if  one  is  incapable  of  creating  anything  from  a 
saw  buck  to  a  poem,  he  must  be  a  business  man.  He  has  no 
other  means  of  livelihood,  but  he  should  not  pride  himself  on  his 
incapacity,  and  an  arrogant  attitude  toward  his  superiors,  the 
artisan  and  the  artist,  is  at  least  unbecoming. 

Running  a  big  business  is  like  keeping  a  ball,  a  plate,  a 
walking  stick  and  a  silk  hat  in  the  air  at  the  same  time.  It  can 
be  done  by  nearly  anyone  who  will  practice  it  sincerely,  and 
the  onlookers  will  say  "marvelous,"  but  what's  the  use,  if  one 
doesn't  like  it. 

On  the  fourth  day  after  my  return  from  the  Adirondacks, 
I  was  called  up  at  home  by  one  of  the  corporation's  creditors, 
I  remember  I  was  in  the  midst  of  Montaigne's  essays,  and  the 
incident  of  being  interrupted  was  so  annoying,  that  I  decided 
on  the  spot  to  turn  the  business  over  to  the  creditors  and  let 
them  run  it,  if  they  wished.  With  that  in  view  I  telephoned  a 
firm  of  attorneys  and  they  advised  me  that  the  only  method  of 
accomplishing  what  I  desired  was  to  place  the  concern  in  bank- 
ruptcy, which  I  instructed  them  to  do.  And  thus  ended  a  long 
and  amusing  flirtation  with  the  Goddess  of  America.  I  came  out 
by  the  same  door  as  in  I  went,  which  I  believe  is  better  luck 
than  most  have  who  become  entangled  with  the  Goddess. 

If  one  does  not  believe  in  business  he  can  no  more  make  a 
success  of  it  than  he  could  make  an  honest  confession  to  a 
priest  if  he  were  not  a  Catholic.  I  shall  always  have  a  tender 
spot  in  my  heart  for  old  Montaigne. 


CHAPTER  II. 


I  had  a  great  feeling-  of  relief — of  freedom — when  it  was  all 
over.  It  was  delightful  to  lie  in  bed  in  the  mornings  and  read,  or 
get  up  and  fuss  about  with  books,  and  to  feel  that  one  did  not  have 
to  go  to  a  damnable  office  and  lie  and  lie  and  lie. 

In  the  succeeding  days  I  played  a  little  at  golf,  rode  horseback, 
read  a  great  deal.,  went  to  a  dinner  occasionally  and  generally 
lived  an  honest  life. 

I  have  always  loved  to  drift.  Bernard  Shaw  says :  "To  drift 
is  to  be  in  Hell,  to  steer  is  to  be  in  Heaven,"  and  Napoleon  says  on 
the  other  hand :  ''A  man  who  doesn't  know  where  he  is  going,  is 
probably  going  far."  Careful  observation  has  taught  me  that  the 
ones  who  steer  hit  as  many  rocks  as  the  ones  who  drift  The  princi- 
pal difference  is  that  the  steerers  have  a  set  and  serious  counte- 
nance, while  the  drifters  "go  laughing  down  the  fleeting  mile.'' 
And,  after  all,  is  it  not  more  satisfactory  (or  rather  less  unsatisfac- 
tory) to  strike  a  rock  when  ycu  are  drifting  than  when  you  have 
your  hand  on  the  rudder  ?  In  the  former  case  Fate  is  to  blame  and 
not  you.  However,  be  that  as  it  may,  there  is  no  doubt  that  Na- 
poleon is  right,  for  by  drifting  I  found  myself  in  St.  Louis  Society. 

It  is  very  amusing  to  be  in  society.  To  receive  a  telephone 
message  at  five  requesting  one's  presence  at  a  dinner  at  seven,  to 
realize  that  one  is  asked  to  fill  in  as  a  last  resort,  to  take  the  place 
of  some  guest  who  at  the  final  moment  was  prevented  from  at- 
tending, is  altogether  charming.  It  is  like  an  adventure  to  go  to 
a  dinner  under  these  circumstances,  and  I  never  sidestep  an  ad- 
venture. 

The  form  of  the  invitation  is  usually  something  like  this: 
"'Oh,  is  that  you,  Mr.  Turner?  I've  been  trying  to  get  you  for 
days.    Where  in  the  wrorld  do  you  hide?" 

"No  wonder  you  couldn't  find  me,"  you  reply,  "'I've  been  up  in 
the  country  shooting  for  a  week  past."  (The  sight  of  a  shot  gun 
makes  me  nervous,  and  I  have  never  killed  anything  larger  than 
a  fly  in  my  life.)  After  this  prelude  comes  the  invitation.  Not 
being  accustomed  to  the  ways  of  society,  you  reply.  "Why,  yes. 
I'll  be  delighted."  This  is  not  the  way  at  all.  If  you  were 
versed  in  the  ways  of  the  polite  world,  you  would  say,  "Can  I  call 
you  in  half  an  hour?  I  have  an  engagement  to  dine  with  the  Van 
Rensaellers  tonight,  but  I'd  so  much  rather  go  to  you.  I'll  try  to 
get  off  by  telling  them  I'm  suddenly  called  out  of  town  or  some- 
thing." 

Then  the  thing  to  do  is  to  watch  the  clock  and  at  the  end  of 
half  an  hour,  or  better  thirty-five  minutes,  you  call  up  and  say 
something  like  this  :  "I've  fixed  it — Had  an  awful  time  getting 
off — Be  sure  and  keep  my  secret — Seven,  did  you  say?" 

—15— 


The  purpose  of  all  this  is  to  show  that  you  are  a  person  not 
to  be  trifled  with  socially,  and  to  insure  future  popularity. 

I  much  prefer  these  last  minute  invitations.  The  premeditated 
affair,  where  you  receive  the  note  a  week  or  so  before  the  event., 
stick  it  in  the  mirror  as  a  memorandum,  and  then  forget  to  look  at 
yourself  that  day  (as  only  people  not  in  society  ever  forget  to  do) 
and  the  event  comes  and  goes  while  you  are  playing  pool  at  the 
club,  does  not  appeal  to  me.  It  is  too  cut  and  dried.  I  like  to  re- 
flect on  the  frame  of  mind  of  the  hostess  who  has  asked  seven 
girls  and  seven  men  to  dine  and,  at  the  last  moment,  one  of  the 
men  has  declined.  I  like  to  picture  her  telephoning  all  of  the 
available  men  of  her  acquaintance,  but  without  result,  for  one 
reason  or  another,  and  then  just  as  she  is  becoming  desperate,  or 
perhaps  after  she  has  become  so,  thinking  of  me.  Then  her  in- 
decision, and  the  final  plunge.  My  prompt  acceptances,  I  always 
feel,  leave  her  with  a  sense  of  having  committed  a  social  error. 

On  the  evening  of  receiving  one  of  these  calls  for  help,  I  pro- 
ceed as  follows  :  At  six-thirty,  I  take  my  bath,  and  after  that  I 
dress  with  great  care.  As  a  rule  everything  goes  all  right  until  I 
get  to  the  white  waistcoat.  Never  have  I  attempted  to  don  this 
sartorial  piece  de  resistance,  but  I  am  one  or  more  buttons  shy. 
My  usual  procedure  at  this  juncture  is  to  punch  a  hole  in  the 
fabric  of  the  waistcoat  with  my  penknife  and  insert  a  sleeve  but- 
ton. After  that  I  pose  before  the  mirror  to  note  if  the  deception 
will  be  discovered.  If  everything  seems  satisfactory  to  my  criti- 
cal eye,  I  mix  a  cocktail,  drink  it,  light  a  cigarette,  walk  down 
two  flights  of  stairs,  step  into  my  car  and  shortly  thereafter  ar- 
rive at  the  scene  of  gaiety. 

I  usually  find  that  I  am  the  first  to  arrive.  This  is  due  to  ab- 
sent-mindedness. I  invariably  forget  that  seven  does  not  mean  seven 
in  society.  The  maid  looks  surprised,  but  admits  me  when  she 
observes  that  I  am  properly  attired.  I  am  shown  into  a  sepul- 
chral drawing  room.  The  dining  room  is  immediately  behind  it 
and  only  separated  by  draperies.  I  know  it  is  the  dining  room  by 
the  sound  of  rattling  silver  and  clashing  dishes.  "There  are  only 
fifteen  spoons,"  I  hear  from  behind  the  draperies  in  a  stage  whis- 
per. "Put  a  kitchen  spoon  at  Mr.  Billings'  place,"  I  hear  in 
another  deep  stage  whisper.  Mr.  Billings  is  the  husband  of  the 
hostess. 

Above  stairs  there  are  sounds  of  tramping  feet  and  much  scur- 
rying about,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  hostess  descends,  a  vision 
of  loveliness. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  she  says.  "Really  you're  the  hardest 
person  to  find." 

It  is  very  difficult  to  lie  gracefully  on  one  cocktail,  unless  one 
has  a  social  instinct,  so  I  merely  say,  "Am  I?"  After  that  there  is 
silence  for  awhile,  and  then  the  hostess  to  relieve  her  own  em- 
barrassment— nothing  short  of  an  earthquake  could  do  anything 
for  me — calls,  "Hurry  up,  William,  Mr.  Turner  is  here." 

—16— 


Enter  William  in  short  dinner  coat  and  black  tie.  He  almost 
forgets  to  speak  in  his  consternation  at  observing  my  full  evening 
regalia. 

More  guests  arrive.  The  men  are  also  in  long  coats  and 
white  waistcoats,  looking  as  uncomfortable  as  people  with  good 
reputations  always  do.  Mr.  Billings  absents  himself  unobtru- 
sively, to  return  a  few  minutes  later,  just  as  some  more  guests 
arrive.  This  time  he  is  also  magnificent  in  de  rigeuer  costume. 
The  last  arrivals  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fitzhugh,  Miss  Carroll  and 
Mr.  Carter  from  New  York.  The  latter  is  in  dinner  coat  with 
black  tie.  He  is  introduced  to  everyone  and  the  conversation 
takes  on  a  general  tone  of  heaviness  about  subjects  lighter  than 
air.  Again  Mr.  Billings  disappears,  to  return  forthwith  in  short 
dinner  coat,  but  with  white  tie  and  white  waistcoat — a  sort  of 
compromise.  His  better-half  gives  him  one  of  those  inquiring 
looks,  which  he  returns  with  a  short,  quick  glance  of  defiance,  as 
though  to  say :    "I  don't  care — this  goes." 

It  is  nearly  eight  when  dinner  is  announced,  the  draperies  are 
thrown  back,  and  the  hostess  loses  one  of  the  wrinkles  in  her  fore- 
head. 

Little  cards  are  placed  about  the  table  bearing  the  names  of  the 
guests,  and  indicating  where  they  are  to  sit.  I  observe  that  I  am  be- 
tween a  debutante  and  a  married  woman  of  reputation  for  austerity. 
It  is  my  habit  after  delicately  placing  the  chair  under  my  dinner 
partner  on  my  right  to  say  something  tactful,  witty  and  pithy,  as  I 
take  my  own  seat.  I  usually  say :  "I  knew  I  should  be  lucky  to- 
day." This  gives  the  ladies  on  either  side  an  opportunity  to  inquire 
"Why?"  which  they  do  simultaneously,  with  artfully  simulated 
interest.  "Because,"  I  reply  in  my  most  gracious  and  insinuating 
manner,  "I  found  a  four-leaf  clover,  hence  this  seat."  My  idea  is  to 
start  the  ball  rolling.  Sometimes  it  works  and  sometimes  not.  If 
there  is  a  lull,  which  there  often  is,  I  drink  my  cocktail,  the  debu- 
tante sips  a  glass  of  water,  and  the  austere  one  gazes  straight 
ahead. 

It  has  always  been  very  difficult  for  me  to  converse  at  the 
same  time  I  am  receiving  impressions.  It  is  like  expecting  a 
storage  battery  to  give  of!  current  at  the  moment  it  is  being 
charged,  and  with  the  exception  of  my  opening  remark,  I  have  no 
canned  conversation. 

The  debutante  breaks  the  ice.  "Oh,  Mr,  Turner,"  she  says, 
turning  in  her  seat  with  carefully  cultivated  impulsiveness,  "I 
hear  you  are  wonderfully  clever!"  (Business  of  beating  the 
chest  with  both  hands  and  looking  interested.)  "Do  say  some- 
thing clever." 

You  begin  to  speak,  but  everything  goes  black  before  vou.  The 
table  seems  to  be  floating  in  the  air.  Your  lips  are  dry  and  your 
voice  sounds  far  away.  At  length  you  hear  yourself  saying :  "I  am 
afraid  that  my  reputation  has  been  exaggerated,"  and  then  you  try 
to  look  inscrutable,  as  though  you  had  said  something  bright  and 
snappy. 

—17— 


There  are  two  maids  waiting  on  the  table,  who  hold  something- 
out  at  you,  all  the  while  studying  the  face  of  the  hostess,  who  is 
accomplishing  that  peculiarly  feminine  trick  of  talking  to  the  man 
next  to  her  with  her  mouth  and  managing  the  maids  with  her  eyes. 

There  is  a  long  delay  before  the  wine  comes,  or  so  it  seems 
to  me,  filled  in  with  talk  that  at  times  borders  on  conversation,  but 
never  quite  reaches  it.  After  the  wine  is  poured  things  begin  to 
take  form.  Mr.  Billings  tilts  his  mask  a  little  to  one  side,  and  enters 
into  animated  conversation  with  Mr.  Smithers  about  the  effect  of 
the  elections  on  the  wholesale  hardware  business.  The  debu- 
tante forsakes  me  entirely  for  the  young  man  on  the  left,  evident- 
ly with  the  mental  reservation  that  what  I  had  observed  about 
my  reputation  being  exaggerated  was  quite  true,  and  I  am  left 
alone  on  a  desert  island  with  the  austere  person  whose  name  I 
cannot  for  the  life  of  me  remember.  She  knows  me,  though,  by 
reputation.  I  can  tell  it  by  the  expression  of  hauteur  in  the  back 
of  her  head. 

"Delightful  hostess,  Mrs.  Billings?"  I  observe. 

The  austere  one  turns  and  looks  at  me.  "Mrs.  Billings  is  more 
than  a  good  hostess,  she  is  a  good  mother,"  she  says  in  what 
seems  to  me  a  tone  of  rebuke. 

"You  bet  she  is,"  I  reply,  and  wonder  what  that  has  to  do  with 

it. 

Later  I  make  another  attempt,  which  also  ends  in  disaster, 
and  then  I  give  up  that  lead  and  confine  myself  to  looking  over 
the  flowers  at  the  girl  across  the  table,  as  though  I  had  endless 
things  to  say  to  her,  if  the  opportunity  would  only  present  itself, 
and  with  a  mental  note  to  take  good  care  that  it  does  not. 

One  can  always  tell  when  a  dinner  is  nearly  over  by  observing 
the  careworn  look  of  the  hostess  gradually  disappear,  and  by  the 
increasingly  obtrusive  joviality  of  the  host.  I  always  begin  to  feel 
better  then,  and  find  the  wine  improving  in  aroma.  By  the  time 
the  ladies  have  departed,  leaving  the  men  to  their  cigars,  I  am 
feeling  almost  as  well  as  before  I  came.  Paradoxical  as  it  may 
seem,  however,  this  is  the  time  when  I  suffer  most,  for  I  am  con- 
scious of  a  desire  to  talk  welling  up  in  me. 

"Strange,"  I  observe,  looking  at  the  gentleman  who  has  taken 
the  young  lady's  seat  across  the  table,  "  what  an  iconoclastic  age 
we  live  in.  Did  you  notice  that  story  in  this  morning's  paper  to 
the  effect  that  they  have  discovered  that  even  Rameses  the  Second 
was  a  faker?"  (I  had  intended  to  finish  my  sentence  with  the 
statement  that  the  story  was  to  the  effect  that  he  had  not  built 
the  pyramids,  but  had  only  inscribed  his  name  on  them,  but  was 
interrupted  by  my  vis-a-vis :)  "What,"  says  he,  growing  almost 
excited,  "have  they  gone  in  the  Trust?"  I  do  not  understand  the 
allusion  at  this  time,  but  am  informed  later  that  the  gentleman  is 
in  the  retail  cigar  and  cigarette  trade,  and  that  there  is  a  cigarette 
named  after  the  Egyptian. 

From  the  end  of  the  table,  I  catch  the  words  :  "American  Lady." 
"The  American  woman,  in  my  opinion,"  I  volunteer,  enthusias- 
tically, "is  the  equal  of  any  woman  in  the  world.    Perhaps  from 

—18— 


the  standpoint  of   I  am  continuing,  when  I  observe  a  blank 

look  on  the  face  of  the  gentleman  to  whom  I  have  addressed  my 
remark.  "We  were  talking  of  The  American  Lady  shoes,  made 
by  Smith  &  Jones,"  says  he  with  vast  irony. 

After  that  I  subside  into  meditative  silence,  and  a  little  later 
we  adjourn  to  the  drawing  room. 

After  attending  a  social  function  in  St.  Louis,  it  is  my  invariable 
rule  to  drop  in  the  saloon  on  the  corner  and  talk  socialism  with  the 
bartender  until  he  closes  up,  which  no  doubt  shows  that  a  silk  purse 
cannot  be  made  from  a  sow's  ear. 

I  hasten  to  explain,  however,  that  I  am  not  interested  in  "isms," 
but  that  I  am  interested  in  a  bartender,  or  in  anyone  else  who  sincere- 
ly believes  in  something  and  talks  and  acts  as  he  feels.  That  sort 
are  so  refreshing  and  naive,  after  a  plunge  into  society.  On  the 
other  hand  there  is  nothing  so  rejuvenating  as  "society,"  after  one 
has  been  talking  overmuch  to  bartenders. 

To  my  mind  the  most  successful  woman  in  the  world  today, 
judged  by  any  or  all  of  the  standards,  save  perhaps  that  of  the  en- 
vious scandal-monger,  is  Miss  Maxine  Elliot.  On  an  occasion  some 
years  since  I  was  lunching  with  her  at  the  Country  Club,  and  sud- 
denly remembering  a  ball  to  be  given  that  evening,  suggested  that 
she  permit  me  to  accompany  her.  She  seemed  pleased  at  the  pros- 
pect, said  she  would  wear  a  new  gown  just  received  from  Paris,  and 
for  me  to  meet  her  at  the  Garrick  stage  entrance  after  the  perform- 
ance. It  seemed  to  me  that  she  would  lend  grace  and  esprit  to  the 
affair,  which  I  anticipated  it  would  not  be  overburdened  with,  and 
so  imagine  my  surprise  to  be  informed  by  my  hostess  when  I  asked 
over  the  telephone  for  an  invitation  for  Miss  Elliot,  that  I  was  an 
outrageous  person  for  even  suggesting  such  a  thing.  With  my  dis- 
torted sense  of  valuations  I  had  thought  Miss  Elliot  was  conferring  a 
favor  upon  St.  Louis  society  in  appearing,  but  it  was  no  such  thing. 

I  struggled  with  my  problem  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  and 
then  threw  myself  on  Miss  Elliot's  mercy.  She  laughed  heartily, 
just  as  I  might  have  known  a  clever  woman  of  the  world  would, 
and  then  musingly  said  "What  a  charming  story  to  tell  Lady  Ran- 
dolph when  I  return  to  London." 

In  thinking  the  matter  over,  I  have  concluded  that  the  reason  I 
have  lost  my  taste  for  society  is  because  I  have  become  blase.  It 
must  be  that,  for  I  can  remember  when,  some  ten  years  ago,  I  went 
with  enthusiasm  to  dinners,  presided  over  by  women  of  grace  and 
tact  and  breeding,  where  I  found  men  of  culture  and  wit  and  sympa- 
thy, or  so  they  seemed  to  me,  but  no  doubt  that  was  the  effect  of 
the  rose-colored  glasses  of  youth,  for,  as  everyone  knows,  the  St. 
Louis  of  today  is  socially  far  ahead  of  the  town  of  ten  years  since. 


—19— 


CHAPTER  III. 


When  my  interest  in  society  began  to  wane.  I  seriously  be- 
thought me  of  marriage,  thereby  reversing  the  usual  order.  Matri- 
mony, as  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  has  observed,  is  a  more  serious  af- 
fair than  death.  My  apartment  overlooked  a  busy  boulevard,  and  I 
was  in  the  habit,  after  my  coffee  in  the  morning,  to  lie  in  the  window 
seat  and  observe  the  people  in  their  goings  and  comings.  I  was  en- 
gaged in  this  congenial  occupation  one  morning,  and  ruminating  as 
usual  on  the  subject  then  uppermost  in  my  mind,  when  1  observed  a 
lady  bustling  out  of  the  hotel  opposite.  Her  maid  followed,  carrying 
a  large  box.  The  chauffeur  held  the  door  of  the  limousine  open,  and 
I  could  see  her  giving  directions  to  the  maid  and  the  chauffeur. 
She  seemed  overwrought  and  anxious.  "No  doubt,"  I  thought,  "she 
is  going  to  the  modiste's,  and  the  box  contains  a  gown  that  must  be 
refitted."  Finally  she  is  inside  the  car.  The  chauffeur  cranks  the 
motor,  but  it  gives  forth  a  report  like  the  explosion  of  dynamite  and 
apparently  does  not  start.  He  cranks  again,  but  there  is  no  result. 
He  opens  the  door  and  talks  with  his  mistress.  Then  he  goes  up 
the  stairs  and  into  the  hotel.  He  returns  anon  and  removes  the 
hood  from  the  engine.  I  recognize  the  car  as  one  I  sold  to  a  gen- 
tleman who  gave  a  note  for  part  payment,  which  he  afterwards  had 
great  difficulty  in  meeting.  Soon  a  force  of  mechanics  arrives  and 
after  half  an  hour  of  labor  the  motor  starts  and  they  are  off,  to  the 
modiste's.  On  other  mornings  when  I  have  been  awake  at  an  early 
hour,  I  have  observed  the  husband  of  this  lady  walking  toward  the 
car  on  the  corner  in  a  dignified  manner.  I  have  seen  him  suddenly 
drop  his  dignity  and  run  for  the  overcrowded  car  half  way  down 
the  block,  and  be  pulled  aboard  by  the  passengers  on  the  back  plat- 
form. Thinking  of  these  things  caused  me  to  ponder  more  seriously 
than  ever  on  marriage.  Try  as  I  would  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
believe  that  I  should  wade  through  other  people's  blood  to  acquire  a 
limousine  and  a  wife  and  a  chauffeur  and  a  maid  and  modiste's  bills. 
Life  seemed  so  simple.  Why  should  one  complicate  it  unnecessarily, 
I  wondered. 

My  principal  objection  to  marriage,  in  the  abstract,  is  that  it 
limits  the  imagination.  As  things  are,  the  world  is  mine,  so  to 
speak.  If  the  fancy  overtakes  me,  I  need  never  finish  this  page,  but 
can  start  for  Ceylon,  or  any  other  place,  within  half  an  hour.  I 
have  no  idea  of  doing  anything  of  the  sort,  but  I  imagine  if  I  were 
married  and  the  thought  occurred  to  me,  I  would  at  once  be  conscious 
of  the  ball  and  chain,  and  a  sense  of  captivity.  I  should  no  longer 
be  my  genial  and  jovial  self,  but  a  disappointment  to  one  woman 
rather  than  a  thing  of  joy  to  a  great  many.  I  finally  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  would  be  the  quintessence  of  selfishness  for  me  to 
marry,  and  much  as  I  admire  selfishness,  on  the  theory  that  one  ad- 

—20— 


mires  that  which  he  is  unable  to  be,  I  shall  never  commit  matrimony. 

I  have  been  accused  of  advocating  free  love,  but  I  have  never 
advocated  anything.  It  is  provincial  to  advocate.  A  man  of  the 
world  might  do  it.  but  it  would  never  occur  to  a  man  of  the  universe ; 
still  I  cannot  imagine  love  without  freedom,  and  I  should  not  desire 
freedom  without  love. 

I  never  proposed  marriage  but  once  in  my  life,  and  then  it  was 
in  verse  and  through  a  third  person.  Like  all  people  who  idealize 
boldness,  I  am  as  timid  as  a  squirrel. 

The  object  of  my  tender  passion  was  at  the  time  seated  on  the 
lawn  at  a  fashionable  resort,  engaged  in  the  profitable  occupation  of 
watching  a  game  of  lawn  tennis,  and  I,  moved  by  some  sudden  and 
uncontrollable  impulse,  indited  the  following,  and  handed  it  to  a 
woman  friend  of  mature  years  and  ripe  judgment,  and  requested 
that  she  act  as  a  sort  of  minister  plenipotentiary  for  me : 

"Be  you  a  friend  of  mine, 

And  wish  to  serve 

Me.  where  I  lack  the  nerve, 

Then  hie  you  to 

Yon  grassy  green, 

Where  sits  a  woman — 

You  will  know  her 

By  her  gracious  mien 

And  by  those  deep  gray  pools 

She  calls  her  eyes. 

But  mark  you  well 

That  in  them  something  lies, 

And  mortal  man 

Had  best  not  gaze  too  long, 

Or  he  will  lose  his  soul 

Ere  he  knows  aught  is  wrong. 

Delay  not.  friend,  nor  wait. 

For  ere  the  moon 

Sheds  her  pale  light  once  more, 

I'd  know  my  fate. 

And  if 

To  outer  darkness  I  am  cast 

I'll  not  complain, 

But  to  sweet  Xature  will  I  turn 

And  let  God's  rain 

Cool  my  burning  soul,  and  then 

Take  up  life's  load 

And  on  my  lonely  way  again." 
The  very  jerkiness  of  the  verse  proves  its  sincerity.  In  fact  it 
is  a  work  of  art.  revealing  the  emotions  of  a  man  in  my  fix,  but  I 
was  surprised  later  to  be  told  by  the  young  lady  with  withering 
scorn  that  I  "wasted  my  life  and  fooled  away  my  time."  I  was  given 
the  impression  that  she  considered  me  no  more  than  a  court  jester  or 
an  amiable  idiot.    Stung  by  the  animadversions  I  again  resorted 

—21— 


to  verse,  which  is  the  recourse  of  the  "stung,"  and  produced  the  fol- 
lowing, which  I  forwarded  to  her,  and  concluded  the  affair : 
"So  you,  who've  barely  tasted  life, 
Tell  me  that  mine's  a  wasted  life — 

Tu  m'amuses. 
To  dress  and  tea  and  bridge  and  flirt 
And  count  with  glee  the  men  you've  hurt, 

If  that's  to  win,  I'd  rather  lose. 
I've  loved  and  dreamed  and  worked  and  fought^ 
Done  other  things  I  hadn't  ought; 

I  even  like  good  booze. 
But  then  you  see,  I'm  just  a  man 
Whose  living  life  the  best  he  can^, 

I've  really  no  excuse. 
And  that's  the  reason  I  sought  yon 
That  you  might  tell  me  what  to  do,. 
That  I  might  be  some  use — like  you, 

N 'est  ce  pas? 

Now  that  it  is  all  over,  I  suppose  it  will  not  be  ungallant  for  me 
to  say  that  I  am  glad  it  turned  out  as  It  did.  It  seems  to  me,  on 
mature  thought,  that  perhaps  one  should  not  agree  to  bind  himself 
for  life  "for  better  or  worse."  If  it  isn't  for  better,  there  is  really 
very  little  excuse  for  going  to  so  much  trouble.  Still  that  is  only 
my  own  opinion,  and  on  that  account  entitled  to  no  respect.  Those 
who  like  marriage  no  doubt  praise  it  very  highly,  and  even  those 
who  do  not  like  it  never  fail  to  recommend  it  for  others.  As  an 
institution  for  others  there  is  nothing  to  compare  with  it.  See  the 
old  ladies,  how  anxious  and  solicitous  they  are  that  no  one  shall 
escape  matrimony. 

I  should  imagine  that  the  finest  sport  could  be  had  by  a  young 
man  of  some  pulchritude  and  more  money,  in  evading  matrimony. 
Every  known  device,  and  new  and  hitherto  unknown  ones,  will  be 
employed  to  trap  him.  It  is  the  world  against  his  wits.  When  he 
is  young  (I  imagine)  the  trap  is  baited  with  Sunday  night  suppers, 
and  domesticity,  and  invitations  to  "affairs";  these  failing,  a  touch 
of  Bohemianism  is  added, i.e.,  the  bait  is  permitted  to  emerge  from 
the  trap  for  an  instant  and  then  dart  back  again.  If  the  young  man, 
in  his  excitement,  should  follow  the  bait  into  the  trap,  all  well  and 
good,  and  he  is  settled  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  But  should  he  catch 
the  bait  on  the  outside  of  the  trap,  ah,  that  is  different.  There  will 
be  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth  (I  imagine),  and  his  "sense  of 
honor"  will  be  appealed  to,  and  then  his  emotions  will  be  worked 
upon,  and  these  producing  no  effect,  the  "mailed  fist"  will  be  shown 
him ;  and  he  still  declining  to  capitulate,  the  law  will  be  brought  into 
the  matter.  If  he  still  has  the  courage  of  his  convictions,  he  may 
escape  by  a  compromise  settlement.  I  have  an  absurd  and  impracti- 
cable idea  that  if  the  two  parties  most  concerned  were  let  alone  to 
work  out  their  own  destiny  all  this  would  not  be;  but  then  I  have 
always  been  visionary. 

I  would  really  like  to  be  married  if  I  could  find  an  affectionate, 
reasonably  good  looking  woman,  with  some  common  sense,  who 

—22— 


would  "have  me,  but  sometimes  I  think  to  find  all  those  qualities,  one 
must  commit  bigamy.  I  would,  no  doubt,  be  far  more  comfortable 
■married,  but  one  must  stick  to  one's  principles. 

I  do  not  think  I  should  care  to  marry  a  rich  woman.  I  imagine 
about  the  third  time  she  said  "my"  automobile  or  "my"  house,  I 
would  be  out  in  search  of  a  position  as  a  chauffeur ;  but  as  my 
friend,  the  bartender  at  Sullivan's,  has  observed,  "If  you're  going 
to  marry  at  all,  marry  a  rich  one,  because  you're  not  going  to  get 
along  with  either."'    But  he,  of  course,  is  a  cynic. 

My  views  about  marriage  are  undoubtedly  peculiar;  I  do  not 
seem  to  take  into  account  the  numberless  young  girls  who  have 
been  trained  with  no  other  idea  than  that  of  matrimony,  and  who 
are  of  "good  family"  and  "accomplished."  I  do  not.  I  cannot  help 
It ;  I  am  not  interested.  I  vastly  prefer  to  give  a  two-dollar  dinner  to 
a  girl  that  isn't  used  to  any,  rather  than  a  twenty-dollar  dinner  to 
a  girl  who  is  used  to  the  twenty-two-dollar  kind.  And  yet  I  am 
not  prejudiced,  for  occasionally  I  like  to  give  a  twenty-four- 
dollar  affair  to  a  girl  that  is  tired  of  the  eighteen-dollar  variety. 
It  is  all  a  matter  of  taste. 

The  foregoing  may  or  may  not  be  pertinent  to  what  Is  to  fol- 
low. I  will  include  it  and  a  great  deal  more  that  is  to  come  and 
which  is  of  doubtful  relevancy,  because  I  am  in  a  quandary.  I  am 
confronted  with  a  problem  on  which  I  have  expended  much  thought, 
with  no  other  result  than  to  come  to  the  conclusion  from  a  priori 
reasoning,  that  may  be  entirely  false,  and  I  desire  the  reader's  aid 
in  disentangling  the  puzzle  ;  therefore  I  wish  to  place  all  the  facts 
that  could  have  the  slightest  bearing  on  the  enigma  at  his  disposal. 


—23— 


CHAPTER  IV. 


It  will  be  seen  from  what  I  have  written  that  I  am  not  re- 
ligious (although  I  have  always  found  time  to  write  Christ  out 
in  full  instead  of  making  an  X  to  designate  His  name),  that  I  have 
not  that  exalted  respect  for  business  success  that  is  more  or  less  the 
rule,  that  I  am  not  industrious  like  the  little  busy  bee,  that  I  am  not 
a  celibate  and  yet  have  no  great  reverence  for  the  institution  of 
marriage,  based,  as  it  is  in  modern  society,  on  money  only. 

Broadly  speaking  those  are  the  things  thait  I  am  not.  On  the 
other  hand  I  do  care  for  women,  children,  books,  good  conversation 
and  the  society  of  men  of  brains,  which  is  unusual  in  the  middle 
west,  if  not  positively  immoral. 

I  believe  in  the  human  soul,  in  a  great  poetic  justice,  and  in  this 
life  and  in  no  other.  I  believe  in  living  as  intensely,  as  intelligently 
and  as  completely  as  possible,  and  I  believe  that  there  is  no  sin  save  to 
deliberately  add  suffering  to  a  world  already  overflowing  with  it,  and 
I  believe,  further,  that  that  sin  is  never  committed,  because  if  suf- 
fering is  added,  it  is  done  through  stupidity,  and  not  with  intention. 
I  believe  that  all  crime  is  misunderstanding — limited  vision — but 
not  such  stupid  misunderstanding — such  limited  vision,  as  the 
punishment  inflicted  for  it  by  the  "Holier  than  thou."  The  idea 
that  there  is  "good"  and  "evil"  is  blasphemous  and  is  a  condemna- 
tion of  life. 

I  hold  many  other  eccentric  and  peculiar  beliefs.  For  instance, 
should  a  highwayman  demand  my  money,  and  I  had  none  I  should 
go  and  get  some  for  him,  if  I  had  to  borrow  it,  and  in  addition  I'd 
find  him  a  job,  if  he'd  let  me,  as  being  a  more  effective  method  than 
punishment.  I  have  no  desire  to  join  the  pack  in  hunting  the  outcast 
—I  have  no  passion  for  personal  revenge. 

I  believe  that  if  the  North  Pole  was  discovered  at  all  Dr.  Cook 
was  the  first  man  there.  I  believe  that  because  the  evidence  to 
support  Cook  is  just  as  credible  as  the  evidence  to  support  Peary's 
claim,  and  then  psychology  creeps  in.  If  I  had  reached  the  Pole 
after  years  of  struggle  and  found  that  someone  had  been  there 
ahead  of  me,  I  should  probably,  in  my  first  fierce  disappointment, 
have  cursed  and  raved,  as  Peary  did.  If  I  had  actually  arrived  there 
first,  after  much  privation  and  suffering,  and  then  been  disbelieved 
and  discredited,  ridiculed  and  charged  with  avarice,  I  should  have 
conducted  myself  exactly  as  Cook  did.  I  should  have  given  the 
world  my  story  with  a  feeling  of  melancholy  compassion  for  human- 
ity, provided  I  had  no  sense  of  humor,  and  gone  into  seclusion.  In- 
asmuch as  I  know  of  no  one  else  who  believes  in  Cook,  this  view 
is  bound  to  be  regarded  as  peculiar,  but  to  not  be  peculiar  is  to  be 
mediocre. 


—24— 


The  only  person  outside  of  myself  who  has  ever  expended  any 
energy  in  an  attempt  to  find  out  what  I  am  is  a  certain  poet,  who 
made  the  following  poetical,  psychological  analysis : 

"You  catch  the  gleam  of  the  suspended  knife, 
You  feel  long  fingers  "round  your  aching  throat. 
You  hear  a  voice  that  dies  upon  the  note 
Of  the  wild  waste  and  weariness  of  life. 
The  flowers  you  gather  grow  above  a  grave 
Where  your  dead  self  these  many  years  lies  deep — 
Aye  where  your  dead  self  lies,  but  does  not  sleep : 
You  are  so  tired,  and  yet  you  are  so  brave. 
And  I  who  love  the  faintest  touch  of  hands 
Held  toward  me  in  caressing  friendliness. 
Wonder,  my  friend,  you  sometimes  dare  to  smile. 
When  there  is  scarcely  one  who  understands 
The  shy.  sweet  moods  that  torture  and  that  bless 
Your  spirit  groping  like  a  lost  exile." 
Now  I  object  to  that  line  about  being  '"tired  and  brave."  I 
was  born  tired,  but  I  am  not  brave.    The  balance  of  the  poem 
I  think  is  good  psychology.    I  do  think  there  is  an  unnecessary 
amount  of  waste  and  weariness  in  life  and  that  it  could  be  made 
better,  and  so  far  as  personal  ambition  is  concerned.  I  do  gather 
flowers,  to  speak  poetically,  over  my  own  grave,  but  that  I  should 
ever  dare  to  smile?    I  wonder  that  I  ever  stop  laughing. 

I  am  not  brave,  though.  There  is  no  doubt  about  that.  I  feel 
sure  if  war  broke  out  I  should  lack  the  physical  courage  to  enlist. 
In  fact,  I  think  I  would  have  the  moral  courage  to  stay  home  even 
though  I  were  the  only  one.  I  am  reminded  of  a  story.  Pardon  me 
a  second :  Jake  Rosenthal  and  Morris  Cohn  were  traveling  north 
in  Arkansas  over  the  Iron  Mountain  railroad.  "Here."  said  Jake, 
a-  they  crossed  the  Red  river,  "is  where  I  enlisted  in  the  Southern 
army.'''  "Oh."  said  Morris,  in  great  surprise,  "T  thought  you 
were  drafted  in  Missouri.  Jake." 

Courage  is  a  very  peculiar  thing.  It  comes  and  goes.  Beer- 
bohm  Tree  tells  a  story  about  a  mouse  that  went  into  the  cellar 
and  discovered  a  pool  of  whiskey  on  the  floor  that  had  leaked 
from  a  cask.  The  mouse  put  his  front  leg  into  the  whiskey  and 
then  sat  up  and  licked  it  off ;  then  he  put  his  other  leg  into  it  and 
licked  it  off.  and  then  he  turned  around  and  swished  his  tail  about 
in  it  and  licked  it  off.  and  then  he  hopped  up  the  stairs,  and 
seating  himself  at  the  top  wanted  to  know  in  a  loud  tone  of  voice 
what  had  become  of  "that  damn  cat"  that  was  looking  for  him 
yesterday.  (A  new  story  when  I  wrote  it,  but  old  now — how  fast 
life  goes !) 

Xo — I  think  it  was  taking  advantage  of  poetic  license  in  call- 
ing me  brave. 

I  really  cannot  be  very  brave,  because  brave  men  all  use  vio- 
lent and  heroic  language :  "Stick  to  the  ship."  and  "Don't  fire  until 
you  see  the  whites  of  their  eyes,"  and  "You  may  fire.  Gridley,  when- 
ever you  are  readv." 


However,  I  have  been  known  to  use  violent  and  obscene  lan- 
guage under  severe  provocation — such  as  an  English  witticism — 
but,  as  a  rule,  I  am  a  mild-mannered  person.  Still  I  agree  with 
Victor  Hugo  that  General  Cambronne  was  the  greatest  man  at 
Waterloo. 

Come  to  think  of  it,  however,  I  recall  another  person  who  tried 
his  hand  at  analyzing  me  in  a  short  sketch.  It  was  Alexander 
Harvey,  America's  Maupassant,  who  once  summed  me  up  in  a  letter 
to  a  friend,  as  follows : 

"Turner  has  been  in  to  see  me.  He  is  a  perfect  spirit,  though 
spoiled  by  some  mysterious  touch  of  a  leering  lip.  He  is  a  chalice 
— a  golden  chalice — from  which  the  sparkling  wine  is  sipped  by  the 
Lucifers,  rather  than  the  Gabriels;  and  what  the  Gabriels  have 
missed.  Not  that  Turner  cares — quite  the  contrary.  That  is  the 
tragedy  to  me." 

What  a  marvelous  thing  is  Injustice — out  of  Envy  by 
Jealousy,  as  we  would  have  said  on  the  race  track.  Injustice 
seems  to  destroy  my  theory  of  human  society,  for  it  is  an  aristo- 
crat, born  of  two  proletarians.  Injustice,  the  great  stimulant 
and  strengthener,  the  raison  d'etre  of  the  stronger  man — and  of 
such  poor  antecedents!  Truly  this  thought  makes  existence  ap- 
pear as  a  circle.  What  would  strong,  giving,  over-flowing, 
artistic  natures  do  were  it  not  for  Injustice?  They  would  per- 
haps perish  of  boredom. 

Except  for  Injustice,  how  could  I,  in  decent  taste,  have 
quoted  Harvey?  Except  for  Injustice,  how  could  I,  in  decent 
taste,  have  mentioned  the  Country  Club  in  print?  Thanks  to 
Injustice,  I  am  enabled  to  write  this  book  and  advertise  Harvey, 
The  Country  Club  and  myself.  Never  let  me  hear  it  run  down 
again.  Like  a  real  Christian,  I  returned  good  for  evil — the  Club 
tried  to  make  me  infamous  and  I  made  it  famous.  Injustice  born 
of  Envy  and  Jealousy  is  the  parent  of  Justice,  aye  of  Good  Taste, 
which  is  Justice's  nom  de  plume — but  I  am  getting  ahead  of  my 
story. 

I  am  not  much  concerned  with  happiness  or  unhappiness.  No 
man  is  happy  save  when  fighting  and  no  one  will  fight  with  me  any 
more,  except  John  Barleycorn,  and  while  I  can  best  him  during  the 
early  part  of  the  battle,  he  always  wins  in  the  end. 

I  have  no  desire  to  be  rich.  I  quite  realize  that  in  making 
that  statement  here  in  America,  I  furnish  evidence  to  my 
enemies  which  they  may  be  able  to  use  to  keep  me  there,  when 
I  am  finally  incarcerated  in  an  institution  for  the  harmless  in- 
sane. Nothing  could  tempt  me  to  be  either  rich  or  poor,  but 
if  a  choice  were  unavoidable  I  would  prefer  to  be  poor,  because 
life  is  so  simple  then ;  all  there  is  to  do  is  make  money, 
which  is  easy — provided  one  has  nothing  else  to  do  and 
no  sense  of  true  value.  But  if  one  is  rich,  life  is  com- 
plicated, intricate,  puzzling.  One  never  knows  whether  he,  his 
jokes,  or  his  money  are  being  laughed  at.  There  is  no  known 
method  by  which  a  rich  man  can  tell  whether  he  is  a  bore  or  a  great 

—26— 


wit.  There  is  no  known  method  by  which  a  rich  man  can  test  his 
friends  or  his  wife. 

The  disadvantages  of  conspicuous  wealth,  under  a  Christian 
Democracy,  are  greater  than  its  advantages.  In  a  Democracy 
the  general  aim  is  to  be  safe.  What  other  aim  could  there  be? 
Great  wealth  buys  nothing  but  notoriety  and  the  hatred  of  the 
crowd,  that  is  to  say,  the  powerful  (under  Democracy)  ;  thus 
money  bu)Ts  not  safety,  but  danger. 

I  have  been  with  the  rich  on  their  yachts  and  have  seen 
them  send  letters  and  telegrams  in  a  vain  effort  to  "make  up  a 
party."  No  one,  who  is  of  any  importance,  has  time  to  go  yacht- 
ing with  the  rich.  There  are  too  man}r  interesting  things  in 
life.  The  conspicuously  rich  do  not  hold  themselves  aloof  be- 
cause they  want  to.  They  are  the  real  outcasts.  One  should 
not  become  conspicuous  by  the  possession  of  things  outside  of 
oneself.    It  is  inartistic. 

A  great  many  things  merely  amuse  me  that  most  people  re- 
gard as  of  vital  importance.  The  preachers  of  "morality,"  for 
instance.  I  think  there  is  nothing  quite  so  ridiculous  as  seeing 
a  man  standing  up  on  his  hind  legs,  waving  his  arms  about  and 
haranguing  an  instinct.  It  is  as  ridiculous  to  lecture  a  young 
man  on  "morality"  as  it  would  be  to  caution  an  old  one  against 
"immorality."  After  all  there  is  only  one  humorist.  Her  name 
is  Madame  Nature. 

I  claim  for  myself  but  one  virtue ;  I  have  never  given  anyone 
advice  (when  I  seem  to  be  giving  it,  I  am  only  talking  to  myself), 
and  vet  I  have  received  millions  of  dollars'  worth  of  it,  but  it 
must  be  remembered  that  advice  is  like  money — those  who  are 
freest  with  it  can  least  afford  to  be. 


CHAPTER  V. 


One  cold,  rainy  evening,  after  dining  at  home,  I  received  a 
telephone  message.  It  was  from  "Her"  and  said  "Not  tonight," 
and  so,  to  pass  the  time,  I  played  solitaire  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  tried  to  read,  but  I  could  not  become  interested.  At  last 
I  took  a  pencil  and  began  to  scribble  aimlessly;  and  almost 
before  I  was  aware  of  it,  I  found  that  I  was  analyzing  my  own 
mood  on  paper.  The  result  of  my  scribbling  was  a  sort  of  essay, 
The  next  morning  I  put  it  in  my  pocket,  and  meeting  the  editor 
of  the  St.  Louis  Mirror,  gave  it  to  him.  He  called  me  up  later 
in  the  day,  and  told  me  that  it  was  "the  best  thing  he  had  had  in 
five  years — the  best  thing  since  George  Sylvester  Viericks' 
'Confessions  of  a  Barbarian/  "  It  was  printed  the  following  week 
under  the  heading,  "What  Shall  I  Do?"  and  the  pen  name  of 
"M.  Evelyn  Bradley."  It  attracted  quite  a  lot  of  attention.  Why 
it  did,  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know,  for  it  was  a  simple  statement  of 
fact. 

After  that  I  tried  my  hand  at  other  articles  and  short  stories. 
They  must  have  been  very  odd  or  very  immoral  or  something,, 
for  they  were  reproduced  in  New  York  and  San  Francisco,  and 
one,  "The  Pigmy,"  was  translated  into  French  by  some  admiring 
Frenchman,  and  appeared  in  Paris.  I  began  to  wonder  if  I  really 
had  a  literary  gift.  I  have  always  thought  it  the  greatest  na- 
tural gift  that  one  can  have — the  gift  of  another  world— to 
be  born  again,  so  to  say — but  I  did  not,  though,  feel  elated  at 
the  possibility  of  it;  instead  I  felt  a  sense  of  responsibility.  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  been  caught,  like  everyone  else  is  sooner  or  later,  in 
the  soft  asphalt  of  life.  Henceforth,  I  would  be  chained  to  an 
occupation.  I  was  no  longer  free.  I  had  been  caught  and  la- 
beled, and  yet  underneath  it  all,  I  felt  grateful  for  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  gift,  which  is  the  psychology  of  all  gifts.  It  was  an 
automatic  answer  to  "What  Shall  I  Do?"  While  I  have  seen 
enough  evidence  to  convince  me  that  I  have  some  sort  of  literary 
talent,  I  have  no  discrimination  about  my  own  work.  I  am  entirely 
incapable  of  deciding  for  myself  what  is  good  and  what  is 
utterly  worthless,  in  the  opinion  of  others.  Some  of  my  real 
masterpieces,  in  my  own  judgment,  were  rejected  by  the  editor 
of  the  Mirror,  and  never  got  into  print  at  all,  and  his  standing 
as  a  critic  of  literature  is  unquestioned  wherever  the  meaning  of 
the  word  is  understood  and  he  is  known.  Why  anyone,  for 
instance,  should  have  taken  the  trouble  to  translate  "The 
Pigmy/'  or  I  should  have  had  the  nerve  to  write  it,  is  beyond 
me,  but  as  I  grow  older,  I  find  more  and  more  things  beyond 
me,  instead  of  less  and  less,  as  I  thought  it  would  be.  Life, 
if  one  is  going  straight,  is  a  continually  widening  horizon,  a 
succession  of  disappearing  mirages  in  the  desert. 

—28— 


That  I  ma)'  shed  all  the  light  possible  on  my  own  character. 
:as  having  some  bearing  on  the  solving  of  the  mystery  which 
I  will  come  to  later,  I  wish  to  say  that  my  favorite  poet  is 
William  Shakespeare,  although  I  think  the  Ballad  of  Reading 
Gaol  is  the  finest  English  poem.  I  am  very  fond  of  Swinburne, 
too.  His  Hertha  I  think  a  big  thing,  but  it  is  a  poem  for  poets. 
It  is  without  meaning  to  the  unpoetical  temperament.  But  the 
Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol  is  not  only  a  tremendous  poem,  it  has 
had,  and  is  having,  an  unconscious  effect  on  the  attitude  of  the 
public  mind  toward  the  victim  of  its  idealism,  the  scape-goat 
of  its  economic  system  and  its  false  morality — the  convict — 
"without  whom  a  Rockefeller  or  a  priest  would  be  an  impossibility, 
and  vice  versa. 

I  have  no  choice  of  prose  writers.  I  have  fads  with  regard- 
to  them.  At  one  time,  I  was  even  consumed  with  enthusiasm 
for  Balzac,  although,  in  justice  to  myself,  I  must  say  that  I  have 
never  been  guilty  of  any  inclination  toward  Eugene  Sue.  I 
wonder,  though,  after  all,  if  Flaubert's  "Madame  Bovary"  is  not. 
in  the  realm  of  novels,  the  only  finished  work  of  art. 

I  loathe  filth  in  conversation  or  in  literature,  and  yet  I 
adore  Rabelais.  I  love  his  esprit,  his  sparkling  wit,  his  splendid 
-sympathetic  nature  and  his  hatred  of  shams.  When  he  handles 
filth  it  becomes  funny,  and  only  hypocrisy  becomes  filthy.  He 
analyzes  filth,  and  while  he  seems  to  enjoy  his  task  a  bit  too 
much,  he  leaves  his  reader  with  the  impression  that  there  is 
nothing  really  filthy  save  a  hypocrite.  Forty  years  in  a  monastery 
•convinced  him  of  this  fact  in  psychology. 

Of  all  the  men  of  all  times,  not  excepting  Shakespeare,  I 
should  rather  have  known  Dr.  Rabelais.  I  like  him  because  the 
only  things  in  the  world  I  hate  are  eroticism  and  hypocrisy 
(and  this  is  not  what  TurgeneifT  calls  a  "reversed  platitude"). 
I  like  Maupassant  for  the  same  reason,  and  by  the  same  token 
I  despise  the  modern  American  magazine  with  its  stories  of 
tawdry  sentimentalism,  thinly  disguising  a  nasty  obsession  with 
sex,  and  sex  only  becomes  nasty  when  it  becomes  an  obsession. 

With  philosophers,  criticism  is  impotent,  and  valuations  are 
useless.  One  should  approach  philosophy  in  an  open,  free  re- 
ceptive state  of  feeling,  and  then  note  the  effect  of  his  reading 
on  his  frame  of  mind. 

Now  Hartmann,  Schopenhauer  and  Spinoza  affect  me  un- 
pleasantly. Schopenhauer  with  his  theory  that  the  ''Sum  total 
of  pain  in  the  world  is  greater  than  the  sum  total  of  pleasure," 
would  depress  me  to  the  point  of  self-destruction,  did  he  not 
follow  up  his  statement  with  an  example,  i.  e. :  "When  the  hawk 
swallows  the  sparrow,  his  pleasure  is  not  as  great  as  is  the  spar- 
row's pain,"  hence,  "The  sum  total  of  pain  in  the  world  is 
greater  than  the  sum  total  of  pleasure."  So  if,  let  us  say,  life 
is  sixty  per  cent  pain  and  forty  per  cent  pleasure,  which  Schopen- 
hauer would  probably  agree  was  fair,  then  has  not  the  hawk 
done  the  sparrow  a  good  turn,  and  is  not  the  hawk  who  must 
continue  to  live  the  greater  sufferer,  and  if  so,  why  talk  about 

—29— 


the  pain  of  the  sparrow,  I  ask?  I  do  not  dispute  Mr.  Schopen- 
hauer's original  statement — no  one  can,  for  it  is  merely  specula- 
tion— I  only  maintain  that  his  own  example  rather  disproves  it 
than  the  reverse,  and  yet  he  is  a  great  prophet.  He  is  the  pro- 
tagonist of  nihilism,  which  must  precede  optimism. 

And  Hartmann,  with  his  theory  that  man  is  a  mistake  of 
Nature's  and  who  committed  suicide  at  thirty-two,  bores  me. 
These  Germans  needed  a  week  at  Baden-Baden. 

But  even  Shakespeare  got  quite  sad  at  times :  "Blow,  blow, 
thy  wintry  wind,  thou  art  not  so  unkind  as  man's  ingratitude. " 
These  lines  are  neurotic.  What  does  one  want  with  gratitude? 
Is  not  that  a  form  of  compensation?  As  some  healthy  cynic  has 
observed,  "Gratitude  is  a  lively  appreciation  of  favors  to  come,'7 
and  besides  there  is  something  fine  and  stimulating  about  a 
"wintry  wind." 

Socrates  is  fascinating  in  his  method  of  reasoning,  but  I 
think  he  was  a  degenerate.  There  was  no  occasion  for  his  drink- 
ing the  hemlock.  He  could  easily  have  escaped,  but  it  was 
more  dramatic  to  do  it,  and  there  is  always  something  stagey 
about  Socrates,  as  he  is  reported  to  us.  It  seems  to  me  I  catch 
a  faint  whiff  of  Oscar  Wilde  when  I  read  of  him. 

Emerson  is  soothing.  Almost  soporific.  He  is  like  a  sum- 
mer breeze  blowing  over  one.  Very  pleasant,  but  not  good  for 
me.  I  need  something  more  stimulating.  However,  his  "Law 
of  Compensation"  is  among  the  very  greatest  contributions  to  the 
philosophic  world. 

I  think  nothing  of  Wilde's  hot  house  philosophy,  as  applied 
to  me,  and  yet  I  think  he  was  the  greatest  philosopher  of  them 
all,  for  when  all  is  said  and  done,  the  test  of  your  philosoph}^, 
is  whether  or  not  it  serves  you ;  and  his  served  him,  after  he 
had  owned  the  world  and  lost  it  through  his  own  silly  bravado. 
He  didn't  drink  hemlock,  and  a  philosophy  that  sustains  one 
under  circumstances  such  as  he  experienced,  is  not  to  be  too 
lightly  brushed  aside.  Still,  I  suppose  philosophy  is  like  intel- 
lect, you  never  acquire  it  until  you  need  it,  which  perhaps  ac- 
counts for  the  fact  that  pretty  women  are  seldom  brilliant. 

I  cannot  stand  the  optimistic  philosophers.  I  cannot  see 
that  anything  can  come  from  deliberate  optimism  but  evil.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise?  If  one  makes  himself  believe  that  a 
good  is  going  to  happen,  he  has  anticipated  the  pleasurable 
sensation,  and  nothing  but  a  disappointment  can  occur.  One 
may  grow  impatient  with  the  pessimistic  philosophers,  but  the 
conscious  optimist  is  disgusting — Elbert  Hubbard,  for  instance. 
One  should  resist  optimism — if  he  would  be  optimistic. 

When  I  read  Nietzsche,  I  feel  as  if  some  one  had  opened  a 
window  and  let  in  fresh,  mountain  air.  I  feel  stimulated,  as  if 
being  a  man  amounted  to  something.  He  gives  me  a  sense  of 
power,  of  desire  to  achieve,  to  really  achieve,  viz. :  to  do  some- 
thing that  has  not  been  done  a  million  times  before;  to  be  a 
successful  idler  (i.  e.,  to  be  subjective  when  everyone  else  is 
objective),  for  instance,  which  is  the  most  difficult  thing  in 

—30— 


the  world.  He  makes  me  ashamed  of  a  miserable  ease  and  of 
remorse  for  so-called  sins  and  mistakes.  He  is  not  soothing- 
like  Emerson,  depressing  like  the  pessimists,  disgusting  like  the 
optimists,  cloving  like  Wilde,  or  patronizing  like  Plato.  I  think 
Nietzsche  must  be  my  philosopher. 

I  know  nothing  of  the  technique  of  music.  My  opera  is 
Madame  Butterfly,  which  statement  no  doubt  renders  the  open- 
ing sentence  in  this  paragraph  superfluous,  in  the  opinion  of 
musicians.  But  the  music  of  Butterfly  expresses  to  me  a  pas- 
sionate soulfullness,  an  elusive  sensation  of  exquisite  pain  and 
pleasure  blended,  that  I  have  found  nothing  like  anywhere  else. 
I  think  Pucinni  has  caught  the  cry  of  a  woman's  soul  in  anguish, 
and  held  it  for  a  second,  in  a  strange,  heart-rending  harmony. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

As  for  my  sins  of  omission  and  commission  which  might  have 
bearing  on  the  mystery  that  inspired  these  writings,  I  have 
never  been  connected  with  any  public  scandal  (which,  perhaps, 
only  indicates  that  I  have  friends  on  the  newspapers),  no  one 
is  the  worse  off  financially  on  account  of  my  having  been  in 
the  world — though  the  opposite  of  that  is  not  quite  true ;  I  have 
never  persuaded  a  lady  to  a  "life  of  shame" — although  I  have  induced 
at  least  one  to  forsake  it  (which  was  to  accept  a  responsibility). 
I  can.  at  the  moment,  recall  no  other  sins  of  omission. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  have  been  arrested  some  twenty-odd 
times  for  offenses  against  the  peace  and  dignity  of  the  State, 
connected  with  automobiling.  I  have  spent  on  that  account 
much  of  my  youth  in  police  courts,  and  I  have  never  seen  a 
judge  sentence  a  "criminal"  that  I  did  not  feel  that  I  would 
rather  be  the  "criminal"  than  the  judge.  Still  I  feel  no  animus 
towards  judges — just  a  sort  of  depression  with  regard  to  them. 
There  is  something  heart  breaking  in  witnessing,  morning  after 
morning,  one  of  these  poor,  stupid  manufacturers  of  misery  in 
a  world  where  misery  is  the  only  thing  that  there  is  too  much 
of,  sitting  there  in  self  righteousness  and  meting  out  revenge 
to  this  poor  devil  and  that  one,  just  as  though  he  were  God 
and  these  people  had  asked  to  be  brought  into  his  world.  If 
the  police  judges  were  psychologists — they  would  sentence  them- 
selves to  life  imprisonment. 

—31— 


I  have  gotten  hilariously  drunk  on  occasions,  which  I  some- 
times regretted  and  sometimes  not.  I  have  come  to  no  decision 
with  regard  to  alcohol.  Whether  I  am  better  or  worse  than 
other  men,  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  curiosity  on  that  score  is 
in  part  the  motive  for  this  abbreviated  memoir,  for  it  is  clear  that 
I  must  be  different,  else  why  the  letter  that  follows  a  bit  further 
on? 

The  foregoing  is  the  best  word  picture  of  myself  of  which 
I  am  capable.  If  it  has  failed  to  conve}'  a  clear  impression  it 
is  not  through  insincerity,  but  because  I  lack  the  power.  I  have 
shown  how  I  felt  toward  things  in  general,  my  opinions  on 
weighty  matters  and  how  I  arrived  at  them;  in  fact,  I  have 
revealed  my  innermost  soul.  Whether  I  had  a  right  to  be 
surprised  or  not  upon  receipt  of  the  following  letter  is  for  the 
reader  to  decide : 

ST.  LOUIS  COUNTRY  CLUB. 

June  6,  191 L 

Mr.  Harry  S.  Turner, 
Saint  Louis,  Mo. 
Dear  Sir: 

At  a  meeting  of  the  Board  of  Governors  of  the  New  Saint 
Louis  Country  Club,  it  was  unanimously  resolved  that  your 
resignation  as  an  active  member  of  the  Club  be  requested,  which 
is  accordingly  done. 

Yours  truly, 
(Signed)  Oliver  S.  Richards, 

Acting  Secretary  . 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Naturally,  upon  receipt  of  the  foregoing  communication, 
there  was  but  one  course  for  a  gentleman  to  pursue.  I  im- 
mediately set  about  stuffing  up  the  key  holes,  putting  towels 
about  the  door  and  window  openings,  etc.  Having  gotten  every- 
thing shipshape  and  air-tight,  I  sat  down  and  wrote  a  few  farewell 
notes — real  masterpieces  in  their  line.  I  read  them  over  several 
times.  They  were  very  sad,  and  I  was  quite  proud  of  them.  I 
almost  regretted  that  I  should  not  be  alive  to  see  them  in  print. 
Suddenly,  however,  one  of  those  strange  whims  of  mine  overtook 
me.  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  inartistic  and  undramatic  to 
write  farewell  notes,  so  I  tore  them  up.  I  argued  the  matter  this 
wise :  If  one  is  to  one's  "own  quietus  make,"  it  should  be  a  wordless 
play.  To  write  notes  is  like  explaining  the  point  of  a  joke ;  it  is 
unpardonable.  Still  the  temptation  to  have  one's  say  when  there  is 
no  possibility  of  contradiction  is  strong — one  feels  like  a  Judge  on 
the  bench  or  the  editor  of  a  weekly  paper — and  it  required  no  little 
moral  courage  for  me  to  bring  myself  to  destroying  those  epistles. 
However,  I  reflected,  if  one  has  been  denied  the  grace  to  live  as  a 
member  of  the  Country  Club — if  one  has  been  unclubby  in  his  life — 
it  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  die  irreproachably,  which  thought 
removed  some  of  the  sting. 

My  next  move  was  to  select  a  suit  of  pajamas  that  had  been 
given  me  as  a  combination  Christmas  and  birthday  present.  They 
were  of  China  silk  and  had  forest  scenery  embroidered  on  them 
by  loving  hands.  I  could  not  help  remarking,  as  I  inadvertently 
caught  a  glimpse  of  myself  in  the  mirror,  that  I  looked  rather  well. 
For  a  fleeting  second  I  had  some  regrets  about  dying,  but  then 
the  awful  alternative  loomed  up  before  me,  and  I  went  on  with  the 
preparations,  I  was  calm  and  cold  as  ice  now.  Deliberately  and 
with  a  steady  hand,  I  turned  full  on  each  one  of  the  four  gas  jets, 
switched  off  the  electric  light  and  went  to  bed.  For  a  time  I  was 
undecided  as  to  the  most  becoming  attitude  in  which  to  die.  First 
I  put  my  hands  under  my  head,  but  it  occurred  to  me  that  the  effect 
would  appear  studied,  so  finally  I  decided  to  fold  them  across  my 
breast  in  the  simplest  and  most  conventional  way.  (For  once  I 
would  be  conventional.)  Then,  there  being  nothing  further  to  do, 
I  waited  for  Death.  I  admit,  now,  that  I  did  not  even  then  give 
up  all  hope  of  a  reprieve  in  the  shape  of  a  letter  from  the  Board 
of  Directors,  saying  that  it  was  all  a  mistake.  But  it  did  not  come, 
and  so  I  died. 

The  next  thing  I  knew  the  sun  seemed  to  be  shining  in  my 
face.  I  was  sure  it  was  Heaven;  still,  as  I  looked  about  me  the 
scene  seemed  familiar.  At  last  it  dawned  on  me  that  I  was  at 
home,  and  that  it  was  afternoon  and  the  western  sun  was  shinins; 

—33— 


in  through  the  cracks  between  the  shades  and  the  window  ledges.  I 
was  perplexed  and  disappointed,  I  arose  and  examined  the  gas  jets. 
They  were  turned  full  on,  but  there  was  not  the  slightest  odor  ofgas 
issuing  from  them.  I  felt  like  a  man  who  has  been  cheated.  Slowly 
it  came  over  me  what  had  happened.  I  had  not  paid  the  gas  bill. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem  to  members  of  the  Country  Club  and  others 
in  the  higher  social  circles,  I  was  glad  to  find  that  I  was  alive,  but 
what  pleased  me  most  was  the  discovery  that  it  is  not  only  a  wrong 
thing  to  do  to  pay  one's  gas  bill,  but  that  it  is  a  careless  and  a 
dangerous  thing  as  well.  But,  I  reflected,  inasmuch  as  Fate  has 
intervened  at  the  last  moment  and  saved  my  life,  I  shall  not  tempt 
the  trickster,  by  making  another  attempt  on  myself.  Instead  of  that 
I  dressed  myself  and  went  to  my  only  remaining  club,  The  Racquet, 
where  I  held  forth  with  some  old  cronies  till  well  into  the  night, 
repeatedly  crooking  the  elbow,  and  freely  jesting  upon  one  sub- 
ject or  another,  for  hath  not  the  immortal  William  of  Avon  said : 

"With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come, 

And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine 

Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  gloom." 

The  next  morning  I  awakened,  as  is  usual  with  me,  in  an 
entirely  different  mood.  All  desire  for  a  pathetic  ending  had  passed, 
and  I  felt  almost  as  well  as  people  who  have  never  belonged  to 
the  Country  Club.  Instead  of  a  feeling  of  sadness,  I  found  that 
I  was  possessed  with  a  driving  curiosity.  I  determined,  before 
taking  any  other  steps,  to  find  out,  if  possible,  why  the  Board  had 
singled  me  out  for  their  attention.  It  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps 
it  was  just  a  trick  to  secure  my  autograph,  but  I  dismissed  that, 
for  I  recalled  the  fact  that  it  could  be  got  off  the  bar  checks  with 
less  trouble.  Of  course,  I  had  violated  every  rule  of  the  Club, 
except  that  one  against  tipping  the  servants ;  which  thought  sug- 
gested that  perhaps  all  of  the  members  had  received  a  letter  like 
mine.  So  I  called  up  two  of  them  on  the  telephone,  but  they 
said  they  had  not  received  anything  in  the  way  of  a  communication 
from  the  Country  Club  (except  the  usual  notice  that  they  were 
posted),  and,  as  the  afternoon  paper  contained  no  account  of  whole- 
sale suicides  of  our  best  people,  I  was  forced  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  alone  had  been  honored  by  the  Board.  While  I  appreciated  the 
saving  of  several  hundred  a  year,  not  to  mention  numerous  articles 
of  wearing  apparel,  that  annually  disappeared  from  one's  lockers, 
I  was  still  curious  to  determine  why  the  said  honor  was  thrust  upon 
me,  entirely  unsolicited  as  it  was. 

And  so,  in  a  proper  spirit  of  humility,  as  is  befitting  when  ad- 
dressing so  important  and  serious  a  body,  I  wrote  the  following 
letter  to  the  Board : 

H.  S.  TURNER, 
St.  Louis. 

Board  of  Governors,  June  8th,  191 L 

Country  Club. 
Dear  Sirs : 

When  I  received  your  letter  I  was  at  first  bewildered. 

—34— 


That  I  am  stabbed  in  the  dark  from  behind,  not  by  one  man. 
but  by  a  set  of  men,  whose  plain  duty  it  was  to  protect  me  with 
their  advice  if  they  thought  it  necessary,  rather  than  to  seek  to  under- 
mine me.  rs  not  of  the  greatest  importance.  It  might  happen  to 
anyone.    But  my  reason  says  insistently,  "Why?" 

I  do  not  know  of  whom  the  Board  is  composed,  nor  do  I  wish 
to  know.    I  admit  that  I  was  hit,  but  I  was  not  hit  fair. 

I  suppose  when  you  gentlemen  find  out  you  have  done  me  an 
injustice  you  will  apologize. 

In  the  meantime,  I  shall  try  to  get  along  without  the  Countrv 
Club. 

Yours  respectfully, 

(Signed)  H,  S.  Turner. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

After  waiting  several  days  and  receiving  no  answer,  to  the 
letter  in  the  preceding  chapter.  I  hied  me  to  the  office  of  one 
Benjamin  Gratz.  the  President  of  the  said  Xew  Saint  Louis 
Country  Club  (although  he  has  other  business),  and  after  waiting 
some  little  time  was  ushered  into  his  presence.  Mr.  Gratz  is  a 
short,  peculiar-looking  man  (but  I  forget — this  is  not  an  inter- 
view). To  make  a  long  story  short.  I  asked  him  point  blank  why 
the  Board  had  written  me  their  interesting  communication.  "Xo," 
he  said.  "I  cannot  explain." 

"Will  you  tell  me,'''  I  asked,  ''who  furnished  you  with  the 
information  on  which  you  acted?" 

"No  one."  he  said  in  a  sepulchral  voice,  and  with  h:s  head 
dropped  on  his  chest,  in  what  struck  me  as  a  Xapoleonic  attitude, 
and  then  he  added,  as  he  eyed  me  sharply.  "We  acted  on  our  own 
initiative." 

"I  do  not  know  of  whom  the  Board  is  composed,"  I  replied. 
"But  you  evidently  voted  against  me,  although  you  had  never  met 
me." 

Mr,  Gratz  nodded,  and  I  could  not  help  observing  again  how 
like  Napoleon  he  was.  Now  I  do  not  admire  Xapoleons  attitude 
toward  life,  nor  a  single  one  of  his  acts — not  even  his  treatment 
of  Josephine — but  he  has  made  some  excellent  epigrams. 

"Mr.  Gratz,"  I  said,  "was  any  charge  made  against  me?" 

"I  cannot  answer  that."  he  said,  and  then  he  sat  low  in  his  chair 
and  gazed  at  me  steadily,  and  I  thought  mysteriously.  It  was  not 
quite  clear  to  me  whv  he  couldn't  answer  my  question,  but  I  had 

-  —35— 


no  desire  to  press  the  subject  and  make  myself  unpopular,  so  after 
the  silence  had  become  oppressive,  I  said : 
"Well?" 

He  began  to  chant  in  a  sort  of  monotone :  "The  women  of  the 
Country  Club  must  be  protected.  The  women  of  the  Country 
Club  must  be  protected,"  etc.,  etc. 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  said,  eagerly,  "go  om" 

But  he  only  repeated  again,  "The  women  of  the  Country  Club 
must  be  protected." 

Now,  while  I  considered  that  statement  open  to  argument,  I 
had  no  desire  to  discuss  it  with  him  at  the  time,  as  I  could  not 
see  that  it  had  anything  to  do  with  the  subject  of  our  conversation, 
but  it  was  all  I  could  get  him  to  say,  until  just  as  I  was  leaving  he  put 
his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  in  a  most  fatherly  manner,  and  announced. 
I  thought  with  a  tinge  of  pathos  in  his  voice,  "You  could  be  a 
success  if  you  tried." 

"The  women  of  the  Country  Club  must  be  protected."  It 
dawned  on  me  after  I  got  outside  what  he  meant.  Don  Quixote 
Gratz  will  now  buckle  on  his  armor,  adjust  his  helmet,  take  up 
his  reliable  spear,  mount  the  faithful  Rosinante,  and  fare  forth 
in  search  of  ladies  to  protect  from  the  blandishments  of  that  bold 
and  wicked  knight,  Sir  Harold  of  Normandy. 

And  his  other  remark,  "You  could  be  a  success  if  you  tried." 
That  statement  set  me  to  wondering  what  success  was ;  I  pondered 
over  it  all  the  way  home.  I  thought  of  a  man  who  had  been  my 
intimate  friend  for  years.  He  had  no  money  at  all  until  he  was 
past  thirty,  and  then  he  came  into  an  enormous  fortune.  We  were 
at  school  together,  where  we  both  spent  our  time,  I  am  afraid,  to 
not  the  best  advantage.  He  was  as  handsome  a  man  as  one  could 
wish  to  see ;  over  six  feet  tall  and  beautifully  made,  and  in  ad- 
dition he  was  the  possessor  of  a  pretty  wit  and  a  fine  heart,  and 
as  a  companion  was  incomparable.  He  never  made  even  a  bluff 
at  work.  His  inheritance  changed  neither  his  friends  nor  his 
disposition,  and  if  ever  money  was  put  to  a  good  use,  his  was. 
He  never  replied  to  a  "touch"  verbally.  He  allowed  his  money  to 
do  the  talking.  He  died  at  thirty-four,  and  I  have  never  ceased  to . 
miss  him,  but  was  he  a  "Success"? 

Then  I  thought  of  another  young  man  of  immense  inherited 
wealth,  now  in  his  thirties.  He  is  personally  pulchritudinous  and 
of  fine  physique,  but  unfortunately,  lacking  in  imagination.  With 
all  this  power  in  his  hands — youth,  health,  good  looks  and  money — 
he  is  a  park  commissioner  at  a  salary  of  some  two  or  three  thou- 
stand  a  year  from  the  commonwealth  (which  is  really  taken  out  of 
the  pocket  of  some  more  efficient  man,  who  really  needs  it),  and  he 
spends  his  time  looking  after  roadways  and  grass  plots  and 
sprinkling  carts.  No  doubt  he  is  a  "success"  in  most  people's  eyes, 
but  to  me  it  seems  a  life  wasted.  He  always  reminds  me  of  John 
Galsworthy's  careful  man  who  was  forever  trying  to  make  an 
omelet  without  breaking  any  eggs,  and  while  he  clearly  made  no 
omelets,  on  the  other  hand  he  had  no  broken  eggs.  How  can  a  man 
with  the  power  of  a  god  and  the  soul  of  a  gardener  be  called  a 
"Success"?    I  gave  it  up. 

—36— 


Again,  I  remember  another  man  of  somewhat  obscure  ancestry, 
of  no  means,  and  who  began  his  career  as  a  newspaper  reporter. 
Alone  and  worse  than  unaided  (for  he  was  combated  by  powerful 
forces  at  every  turn),  he  has  painfully,  patiently  and  with  rare 
good  judgment  made  a  name  for  himself  that  is  known  wherever 
English  literature  penetrates.  But  that,  in  my  opinion,  is  not  the 
greatest  of  his  achievements,  for  he  has  given  a  helping  hand  to 
more  than  one  desperate  girl  and  been  instrumental  in  getting  more 
than  one  poor  down-and-out  fellow  from  the  work-house  or  the 
penitentiary,  and  giving  him  a  chance  for  life.  Also  he  has  dis- 
covered and  made  through  his  encouragement  and  advice  many  a 
writer  who  would  otherwise  have  been  unheard  of.  All  the  while 
that  he  was  doing  these  things  he  was  engaged  in  editing  the  most 
remarkable  weekly  paper  in  the  whole  world,  and  one  that  has  never 
side-stepped  the  truth  for  fear  of  losing  an  advertiser,  which  alone 
should  place  him  among  the  immortals.  Also  he  is  a  delightful 
conversationalist,  with  a  peculiar,  grim  sense  of  humor. 

But  is  he  a  ''Success"?  I  don't  think  he  is,  though  by  some 
standards  he  is  perhaps  more  of  a  success  than  either  of  the  other 
two  examples,  for  he  has  been  as  true  to  himself  as  he  could  be. 
which  isn't  very  true,  in  that  he  is  by  nature  a  perpetual  disharmony, 
torn  between  his  heart  and  his  reason.  He  seems  never  to  be  able 
to  co-ordinate  them,  and  so  his  life  is  one  long  series  of  contradic- 
tions. He  reminds  me  of  one  of  those  oscillating  electric  fans, 
which  moves  slowly  from  one  extreme  to  the  other,  but  nevertheless 
is  always  whirling  merrily  and  stirring  up  a  bit  of  breeze,  which 
is  something,  even  if  it  doesn't  blow  the  hair  off  one's  head.  He 
never  hits  the  mark,  this  editor,  although  he  crosses  it,  going  in 
one  direction  or  the  other,  a  thousand  times  in  the  course  of  a  year. 
He  is  the  sort  of  man  who  desires  everything,  but  who  cannot  hold 
his  mood  or  concentrate  long  enough  to  grab  what  he  wants.  I 
am  always  reminded,  when  I  am  with  him.  of  the  character  in 
Victoria  Cross'  book,  who  stood  in  front  of  Life's  shop  window, 
seeing  everything,  but  unable  to  decide  on  any  one  thing,  which  it 
is  quite  necessary  to  do  in  Life's  shop,  unless  one  has  everything, 
or  unless  one  would  pass  on  empty-handed.  It  is  useless  to  endeavor 
to  deceive  oneself  into  believing  that  one  has  everything  by  calling 
oneself  a  philosopher,  when  the  fact  is,  that  in  reality,  one  only 
lacks  the  courage  of  one's  desires. 

His  contempt  for  everything  outside  of  himself  proves  his  hope- 
less plebeianism ;  even  his  erudition  crumbles  somewhat  when 
you  touch  it.  He  has  wraded  too  much  in  romanticism,  i.  e., 
slush,  and  he  has  too  strong  a  predilection  for  digging  in  manure 
piles  and  deceiving  even  himself  into  the  belief  that  he  is  search- 
ing for  rare  flowers.  In  short,  he  has  been  spoiled  by  sacerdo- 
talism, which  fills  him  with  the  egotism  of  beneficence,  but  we 
are  "on  to"  beneficence  these  days.  The  priest  has  overworked 
it  in  his  efforts  to  overpower  us.  This  type  always  becomes 
prominent  in  decadent  periods,  as  at  present,  for  this  type  is  the 
protagonist  of  decadence. 

—37— 


I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  seen  a  successful  man  or  even  read  of 
one.  Oscar  Wilde  might  have  been  but  for  his  fatal  weakness,  for 
he  had  the  dual  mind,  i.  e.,  the  balanced  mind,  that  comprehends 
all  sides  of  a  question  simultaneously,  such  a  mind  as  Shakespeare 
invested  Hamlet  with,  only  of  finer  quality,  in  that  it  leaned  toward 
humor  rather  than  toward  melancholy,  though  the  dividing  line 
between  the  two  is  made  of  very  fine  hair.  Wilde's  mind  did  not 
oscillate.  His  was  the  intellect  of  the  superhumorist — Homeric-like, 
almost  God-like.  How  ironical  that  a  body  should  have  betrayed 
that  giant  intellect,  and  what  becomes  of  the  "mind-over-matter" 
theory  ?  Had  Wilde's  body  been  a  match  for  his  mentality,  I  should 
have  called  him  a  successful  man.  He  was  one,  in  his  own  opinion, 
for  De  Profundis  is  an  insincerity ;  but  brilliancy,  unaccompanied  by 
physical  strength,  is  only  the  "phosphorescent  glimmer  of  rotten- 
ness/' the  dull  glow  of  punk. 

But  wait  a  minute.  How  about  Edward  E.  Paramore?  Here 
is  perhaps  a  successful  man.  Surely  he  possesses  every  material 
thing  that  one  could  wish  for ;  he  has  in  addition  a  fine  spirit, 
irrepressible  humor;  physiologically  he  is  exceptional  and  he  is  a 
true  philosopher.  His  heart  is  so  fine,  that  I  have  never  seen  him 
exhibit  the  slightest  trace  of  sentiment.  He  is  far  too  sentimental 
for  that.  When  I  consider  how  much  he  has  lived,  how  much  he 
has  seen  and  how  much  he  knows,  and  now,  near  the  meridian 
of  life,  observe  that  he  retains  all  of  his  pristine  boyishness ;  when 
I  reflect  upon  his  utterly  charming  family,  his  delightful  home 
life  and  yet  on  the  other  hand  his  companionable  quality,  the  trace 
of  the  vagabond  in  him,  his  healthy,  joyous  cynicism,  and  on  top 
of  it,  his  perfect  sense  of  values  and  his  understanding  of  men  in 
all  the  walks  of  life,  in  short  his  universality  of  spirit,  I  feel  that 
perhaps  I  have  been  straining  my  eyes  toward  the  distance,  when 
what  I  sought,  the  successful  man,  was  standing  at  my  elbow. 
Paramore  has  a  fine  legal  mind  ;  also  he  has  a  knowledge  of  and 
instinct  for  finance  that  is  superior  to  the  knowledge  and  instinct 
of  anyone  of  the  professional  financiers  I  have  happened  to  know. 
In  his  facility  of  instantaneously  finding  a  story  to  demonstrate  a 
point,  even  Abraham  Lincoln  was  not  his  equal.  This  quality  en- 
ables him  to  accomplish  his  end  without  lacerating  the  feelings  of 
his  antagonist,  and  would  have  made  of  Paramore  an  unequaled 
diplomat,  or,  being  as  he  is,  a  born  narrator,  as  a  novelist  he  would 
have  added  much  to  literature. 

I  cannot  escape  the  conclusion  that,  judged  by  every  true  stand- 
ard, Paramore  is  a  superior  man ;  and  yet.  perhaps,  if  I  tested  him 
or  any  other  big  man  with  "moralic  acid,"  he  would  crumble  into 
dust,  from  which  I  take  it  that  "moralic  acid"  is  the  most  subtle 
and  dangerous  of  poisons. 

If  I  am  wrong,  I  cannot  help  it.  It  is  an  astigmatism  in  my 
eye,  so  bear  with  me.  If  I  can  not  "see"  an  Anthony  Comstock  or  a 
Gratz  or  the  "advanced"  literary  crowd  in  New  York,  it  is  some- 
thing, perhaps,  lacking  in  me.  However,  if  my  view  were  not 
different,  there  would  be  no  point  in  expressing  it. 


—38— 


CHAPTER  IX. 


I  am  well  aware  of  the  triviality  of  the  whole  affair,  regarded 
by  itself.  I  am  quite  conscious  of  my  own  insignificance  and  that 
of  the  Country  Club,  I  fully  realize  that  compared  to  something  im- 
portant like  ''making  money,"  the  whole  matter  is  not  even  a  good 
joke.  Our  disagreement  will,  no  doubt,  appeal  to  the  disinterested 
bystander ;  as  in  the  case  of  the  backwoodsman's  wife  who  came  into 
the  clearing  in  front  of  her  cabin  and  discovered  her  husband  in 
a  death  struggle  with  a  bear.  In  remarking  on  it  afterwards,  she 
said  it  was  the  only  fight  she  ever  saw  where  she  didn't  care  who 
won. 

There  is,  notwithstanding,  a  principle  involved  in  this  contro- 
versy which  goes  as  deep  as  anything  in  human  life.  It  is  whether 
an  individual  shall  have  his  reputation,  his  money  or  his  life 
taken  away  by  the  herd  without  a  chance  to  defend  himself.  It 
so  happens  that  I  can  defend  myself  quite  satisfactorily,  because 
I  have  time  to  do  it.  and  because  I  can  write,  and  because 
I  have  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  which  is  only  a  sense  of  proper 
proportion,  which  enables  me  to  take  an  institution  like  the 
Country  Club  at  its  proper  valuation.  I  know  a  number  of 
young  men  belonging  to  that  organization,  however,  who  regard 
it  so  seriously  that  had  they  received  the  communication  which 
I  did,  and  been  refused  an  explanation,  would  actually  have 
clone  that  which  I  played  at  doing  in  an  earlier  part  of  this  story. 
One  member  of  my  family  took  the  matter  quite  to  heart,  and 
I  have  never  been  able  to  convince  her  that  I  do  not  know  why 
the  Board  of  the  Club  saw  fit  to  write  me  that  letter.  The 
other  members  of  the  family,  however,  regarded  it  as  I  do, 
viz. :  a  mystery  of  motive,  but  not  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
I  repeat  that  the  principle  involved  is,  or  should  be,  a  matter 
of  interest  to  every  man  who  believes  in  fair  play,  which  none 
but  losers  believe  in.  I  do  not  wish  to  give  the  impression  that  I 
am  paraphrasing  that  ancient  and  false  platitude  of  the  overcharged 
customer :  "I  didn't  care  for  the  money — it  was  the  principle  of  the 
thing."  In  my  case  it  was  quite  the  reverse.  I  was  glad  to  save 
the  money,  but  I  couldn't  get  away  from  the  principle  of  the  thing. 

The  following  facts  are  not  inspired  by  a  touch  of  "sour 
grapes."  To  those  who  may  think  so,  I  would  say  that  the 
difference  between  seeing  straight  and  crooked,  is  largely  one 
of  being  able  to  determine  which  is  cause  and  which  is  effect. 
The  confusion  of  cause  and  effect  is  the  most  common  of  in- 
tellectual errors.  For  instance,  wre  hear  that  a  wife  gets  a 
divorce  from  her  husband  because  he  drinks,  whereas  the  fact 
may  be,  and  usually  is,  that  the  husband  drinks  because  he 
cannot  get  a  divorce  from  his  wife.    Drink  is  not  the  cause  of 

—39— 


divorce.  Inability  to  get  a  divorce  is  the  cause  of  drink,  very 
often.  In  my  case  it  is  possible — remotely  possibly — that^the 
reason  I  was  asked  to  resign  was  on  account  of  some  references 
to  the  club's  shortcomings.  I  do  not  now  point  out  those  short- 
comings because  I  was  asked  to  resign.  I  have  no  desire  to 
do  anything  that  would  injure  the  Club  or  the  members  of 
the  Board.  I  merely  wish  to  relieve  myself  of  the  necessity 
of  trying  to  solve  a  puzzling  enigma,  and,  having  tried  every 
other  imaginable  method,  I  am  forced  to  the  one  I  am  employing, 
viz. :  to  write  the  whole  story,  which,  as  I  explained  in  the  be- 
ginning, always  relieves  me.  I  am  afraid  if  I  didn't  get  this 
poison  out  of  my  system,  I  might,  like  the  husband  referred  to, 
take  to  drink,  whereupon  the  Board  of  Governors  would  say : 
"See,  he  drinks.  We  were  right  in  requesting  his  resignation." 
No,  I  am  not  malicious  nor  vindictive  in  the  premises.  If  I 
were,  I  should  not  confine  myself  to  mere  ethical  criticism,  but 
might  be  inclined  to  recite  some  club  history,  that  would  make 
this  little  book  one  of  the  season's  best  sellers. 

The  plain  unadorned  truth  is  that  the  St.  Louis  Country 
Club  had  become  a  disgrace  to  the  City  in  its  run  down  con- 
dition. The  service  in  the  cafe  was  slow  and  dirty  and  costly. 
The  golf  links  were  inferior,  regarded  from  every  standpoint, 
to  any  other  course  in  the  city.  The  locker  rooms  were  indecent. 
Men  were  crowded  together  in  a  space  three  feet  wide  among 
ill-smelling  clothing,  and  in  a  state  of  nudity  that  was  disgusting. 
The  stables  and  out  buildings  were  dilapidated  and  the  verandas 
about  the  club  house  were  rotten  and  full  of  holes. 

No  doubt  the  Japanese  servants  presented  quite  a  smart 
appearance,  but  they  were  woefully  inefficient,  and  it  always 
grated  on  my  sensibilities,  in  old  St.  Louis,  settled  by  my  good 
forefathers,  to  see  the  bourgeoise  of  yesterday  become  the  pseudony- 
mous aristocracy  of  today,  and  the  old,  self-respecting  black 
servant  superseded  by  the  smirking,  cringing,  treacherous  yellow 
man. 

I  hope  these  statements  of  fact  will  not  be  attributed  to  the 
fable  of  Aesop's  to  which  I  have  already  alluded.  Of  course, 
it  is  idle  for  me  to  deny  that  I  will  miss  the  melodious  voices  of  the 
members  issuing  from  the  bar  on  Saturday  evenings  in  various  de- 
grees of  disharmony,  as  they  warble  the  strains  of  "It's  always  fair 
weather  when  good  fellows  get  together,"  or  "I  wonder  who's  kiss- 
ing her  now."  And  those  thrilling  dinner  dances,  where  everyone 
gets  up  from  the  tables,  jostle  and  jolt  each  other  for  ten  minutes, 
and  then  get  jammed  in  the  doorway,  as  they  all  try  to  go  home  at 
once !    I  shall  be  lost  without  them. 

And  Genevieve,  that  Danish  female  impersonator,  who  has 
been  a  residing  member  of  the  club,  sans  dues,  for  lo  these  many 
years.    Who  will  take  his  place?  . 

Never  again  will  I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  Ben  Greet 
players  perform  "As  You  Like  It"  on  the  lawn,  by. the  light  of  the 
pale  moon.  Never  again  will  I  hear  the  dulcet  tones  of  Rosalind 
in  soliloquy,  as  she  emerges  from  the  Forest  of  Arden,  the  while 

— 40 — 


Ben  Gratz'  colored  chauffeur  is  carving  a  chunk  out  of  Mr, 
Stickney's  coachman  with  a  bowie  knife  on  the  front  porch.  As  a 
wag  remarked  on  that  occasion  of  the  Country  Club's  excursion 
into  art:  "It  seems  to  me  that  Ben  Greet  isn't  giving  as  good  a 
show  as  Ben  Gratz  tonight." 

But  I  maintain  that  comparisons  are  odious,  and  why  be  hyper- 
critical? Where,  save  at  the  Country  Club,  could  one  see  at  a 
single  performance  a  comedy  by  Shakespeare  and  a  tragedy  by 
Gratz,  with  a  real  negro  in  the  part  of  the  jealous  Moor? 

And  who  but  the  Board  of  Governors  of  the  Country  Club 
would  have  selected  "As  You  Like  It"  to  produce  for  the  delecta- 
tion of  the  members  in  their  first  and  only  artistic  effort?  "As 
You  Like  It" — Shakespeare  laughing  at  his  audience,  giving  them 
what  they  like,  inasmuch  as  they  were  incapable  of  understanding 
his  serious  works — Shakespeare  in  cynical,  satirical  mood,  saying 
"Here  Fools,  is  something  as  you  like  it."  What  could  have  been 
more  apropos,  and  what  a  pity  the  matchless  poet  could  not  have 
witnessed  the  performance?  But  his  reputation  as  a  deer  stealer 
would  have  worked  to  prevent  his  becoming  a  member  of  the 
Xew  Saint  Louis  Country  Club.  Still  he  might  possibly  have  dis- 
guised himself  as  a  stock  broker,  and  thus  entered  upon  the  sacred 
domain. 

How  I  shall  miss  those  charming  afternoons  on  the  lawn, 
where  the  different  feminine  cliques  distribute  themselves  at 
proper  distances  apart,  and  make  disparaging  remarks  about  each 
other,  all  the  while  each  one  wishing  she  were  at  home,  lying  on 
the  bed  in  comfortable  matinee  with  a  cigarette  and  a  novel. 

And  the  ball  team,  which  is  only  permitted  by  the  Board  to 
challenge  teams  that  are  its  social  equal !  Xo  more  will  I  see  it 
in  soul-stirring  struggle  with  the  nine  from  the  Wednesday  Club. 

Surely  life  is  hard ;  still  I  might  have  borne  up  were  it  not 
for  the  realization  that  henceforth  our  society  leader  will  perform 
on  the  flute,  and  I  will  not  be  there  to  hear  the  saccharine  notes,  un- 
less perchance  I  should  secrete  myself  beneath  some  friendly  rose 
bush,  nearby  an  open  window. 

Ah,  it  is  very  sad  to  have  to  give  up  so  much,  but  then,  "Life 
is  not  all  beer  and  skittles." 


CHAPTER  X. 


Having  received  numerous  messages  by  grapevine  and  tele- 
phone to  the  effect  that  the  news  of  the  request  for  my  resignation 
was  being  diligently  circulated,  and  as  that  was  interesting  to  a 
psychologist  as  a  matter  of  motive,  I  wrote  the  following  letters : 

H.  S.  TURNER, 
St.  Louis. 

To  the  Board  of  Governors, 

Country  Club : 
Dear  Sirs : 

Supplementing  my  previous  letter,  I  learn  today,  from 
sources  that  are  unquestionable,  that  the  matter  of  my  being  asked 
to  resign  from  your  Club  has  been  reported  by  a  member  of  your 
Board,  holding  an  honorary  and  confidential  position,  to  a  person 
or  persons  in  no  way  connected  with  your  Board.  The  matter  is 
now  public  property  through  the  instrumentality  of  this  officer. 

I  do  not  deny  your  legal  right  to  request  my  resignation,  but  I 
do  deny  your  right  to  humiliate  members  of  my  family,  who  still 
have  the  bad  taste  not  to  think  me  undesirable.  The  humiliation  of 
myself  is  another  and  separate  matter. 

I  ask  that  you  will,  in  one  week,  convene  in  special  meeting 
and  instruct  your  Secretary  to  withdraw  his  request  for  my  resig- 
nation. 

Assuring  you  of  my  highest  respect,  I  am 
Very  sincerely, 

6-12-11.  (Signed)    H.  S.  Turner,  Jr. 

No  answer  was  received — hence  the  following: 

H.  S.  TURNER. 
St.  Louis. 
To  the  Board  of  Governors : 

I  am  entitled  to  reply  to  my  letters  to  you  under  any  concep- 
tion of  ethics. 

This  affair  that  you  have  started  with  me  is  clearly  "unfin- 
ished business/'  As  the  matter  stands  now  your  Honorable  Board 
is  in  the  position  of  having  struck  in  the  dark  and  then  run 
away.  It  is  nothing  less  than  (I  have  carefully  weighed  the 
word)  cowardly. 

Boards  like  yours  are  of  course  like  juries,  controlled  by  one 
individual  with  a  strong  incentive. 

I  am  prepared  to  answer  any  charge,  but  of  course  I  cannot 
answer  no  charge. 

Yours  truly, 

June  27th,  191 L  (Signed)    H.  S.  Turner,  Jr. 

—42— 


These  letters  brought  forth  the  following  from  the  Board  and 
my  reply  thereto.  I  suspect  the  attorney  of  the  Board  must  have 
inspired  this  communication.  It's  lucidity  of  phrase,  its  wealth  of  idea, 
its  simple  directness,  could  have  emanated  from  no  other  source. 

ST.  LOUIS  COUNTRY  CLUB. 

July  1,  1911. 

Mr.  H.  S.  Turner,  Jr., 

Saint  Louis,  Mo. 
Dear  Sir: 

Answering  your  letter  of  6-19: 

The  request  of  the  Board  for  your  resignation  has  never  been 
complied  with.  Therefore  it  is  impossible  to  give  you  any  answer 
at  this  time. 

Yours  truly, 

(Signed)    H.  H.  Langenberg, 
Diet.  Secretary. 


H.  S.  TURNER.  JR. 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard, 
St.  Louis. 
To  the  Board  of  Governors, 
Dear  Sirs : 

The  very  lucid  letter  of  your  new  Secretary,  signed  with  the 
typewriter,  is  received  today.  By  careful  analysis,  with  the  aid 
of  a  lantern,  I  find  that  it  is  intended  to  mean  that  the  reason  you 
refuse  to  give  the  reason  for  requesting  my  resignation  is,  that  I 
decline  to  resign  without  knowing  what  that  reason  is,  and  if  I 
resign  without  knowing  what  it  is,  you  seem  to  intimate  that  then 
perhaps,  if  you  feel  like  it,  you  will  announce  it. 

A  very  learned  man,  Mr.  Amiel,  has  observed  that  "Action  is 
but  coarsened  thought,"  and  I  have  no  desire  to  be  coarse  if  it  can 
be  avoided,  but  you  may  rest  assured  I  am  going  to  have  a  rea- 
son for  your  action,  if  there  is  any  possible  way  to  get  it.  You 
have  to  your  credit  the  destruction  of  a  fine  patrician  youth  of  un- 
usual quality.  I  refer  to  Dan  Tracy.  No  one  knows  why  you 
did  it,  but  there  are  the  most  revolting  and  impossible  stories  in 
circulation,  all  of  them  different  and  all  equally  unbelievable — and 
all  due  to  your  action.  I  shall  not  suffer  his  fate  even  if  I  have  to 
do  so  unethical  a  thing  as  to  bring  your  Honorable  Board  out  in  the 
open. 

The  Country  Club  is  not  of  the  slightest  interest  to  me,  but 
psychology  is.  There  could  have  been  but  one  object  in  your  action 
and  that  was  to  humiliate  me,  and  there  would  be  no  humiliation 
unless  the  story  was  circulated,  which  you  proceeded  to  do  with 
promptness  and  thoroughness.  To  now  leave  the  matter  in  this 
indefinite  shape  is  Mjachivelian  in  its  nastiness,  but  perhaps  the  final 
result  may  give  a  little  tang  to  the  otherwise  dull  Summer  Season. 

Yours  most  respectfullv, 
7-3-11.  (Signed)    H.  S.  Turner,  Jr. 

—43— 


There  was  a  lull  after  this  and  I  had  time  to  reflect  on  the 
principle  involved  in  this  attack  on  me.  When  I  realized  the  full 
meaning  of  that  first  letter ;  when  I  began  to  see  the  state  of  mind 
of  a  set  of  men  who  had  accepted  my  money  for  some  fifteen-odd 
years,  and  had  maintained  pleasant  relations  with  me,  and  then 
without  assigning  a  cause  or  without  warning,  had  attempted  to  un- 
dermine me  in  a  most  wanton  and  cowardly  manner,  I  was  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  afraid,  I  wondered  if  all  my  theories  of  life 
were  wrong-,  if  my  idea  that  humanity  was  fine  at  bottom,  but  that 
it  was  handicapped  by  its  own  absurd  laws,  was  simply  error.  And 
then  I  comforted  myself  with  the  thought,  that  I  had  always  held 
that  if  one  is  looking  for  treachery  he  will  not  find  it  in  the 
"Bottoms  Gang"  nor  in  "Egan's  Rats,"  but  in  just  such  places  as 
I  had  found  it.  And  so  my  whole  fabric  did  not  crumble,  as  for  a 
moment  I  thought  it  would.  Instead  it  flashed  over  me  that  these 
men  had  done  what  they  considered  a  clever  thing.  They  had 
tried  to  stab  me  in  the  dark,  and  missed  me,  and  that  I  had  a 
knife  and  a  light  in  the  shape  of  a  typewriter  and  the  gift  of  gar- 
rulity, and  so,  dear  reader,  do  not  take  the  balance  of  the  cor- 
respondence in  this  volume  too  seriously.  It  is  merely  the  cat 
playing  with  the  mouse, 

H.  S.  TURNER,  JR. 
St.  Louis. 

July  17,  1911. 

To  the  Board  of  Governors, 

Country  Club,  City. 
Dear  Sirs : 

If  you  get  as  much  amusement  out  of  reading  my  letters  as  I 
get  out  of  writing  them,  it  is  plain  that  I  have  added  somewhat  to- 
the  sum  total  of  mirth  in  the  world,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  any  of  you 
can  say  that  you  have  done  as  much. 

One  of  the  most  humorous  situations  in  Robin  Blood  is  where 
old  Friar  Tuck  becomes  incensed  at  Robin,  over  some  trivial  mat- 
ter, and  stamps  and  fumes  and  froths  in  his  efforts  to  think  of  a 
suitable  revenge.    Finally  he  shouts  out  "I'll  excommunicate  you !" 

It  never  fails  to  amuse  the  audience  immensely.  Excommuni- 
cation of  a  greater  person  by  a  group  of  lesser  ones  always  touches 
the  risibilities.  But  even  the  Church,  notoriously  unfair  in  its  petty 
spites,  does  not  go  so  far  as  to  excommunicate  without  first  giving  a 
reason. 

It  is  trite  and  platitudinous,  I  know,  but  ne'ertheless  an  axiom 
that  people  living  in  glass  houses  should  not  throw  stones.  There 
may  be  some  of  your  directors  who  are  not  living  in  glass  houses, 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  some  who  are  living  in  isinglass 
houses,  which  a  puff  of  wind  will  disastrously  disarrange. 

But  seriously,  Gentlemen,  now  that  you  see  you  have  erred, 
would  it  not  be  a  more  courageous  and  a  more  common  sense 
thing  to  do,  to  withdraw  your  childish  letter  to  me,  with  proper 
apologies.  In  which  event  I  might  resign  from  your  archaic  in- 
stitution, as  I  have  no  desire  to  contribute  to  its  support  under  the 

—44— 


circumstances.  In  the  future  if  we  needs  must  fight,  let  us  fight 
like  gentlemen,  according  to  the  rules,  and  not  like  assassins  and 
anonymous  letter  writers. 

In  case  I  resign,  I  shall  even  be  willing  to  write  you  my  resig- 
nation in  verse,  which  you  can  no  doubt  sell,  after  my  death,  for  as 
much  as  an  initiation  fee. 

Most  respectfully, 

(Signed)    H.  S.  Turner. 


The  following  letter  addressed  to  the  Honorable  Daniel  G. 
Taylor,  was  sent  the  morning  after  the  interview,  or  collision,  or  ex- 
plosion or  whatever  one  wishes  to  call  it,  which  occurred  at  the 
Racquet  Club  upon  my  request  of  the  said  Taylor,  in  person,  for 
an  answer  to  my  communications  to  the  Board  of  the  Country 
Club: 

H.  S.  TURNER,  JR. 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard. 
St.  Louis. 

August  18,  1911. 

D.  G.  Tavlor,  Esq., 

City/ 
Dear  Dan : 

You  seemed  to  me  unduly  excited  last  evening,  and  conse- 
quently may  not  have  gotten  a  clear  understanding  of  my  position 
in  the  Country  Club  matter,  hence  this  note. 

Your  Board  by  its  action  has  left  me  in  a  position  where  any 
enemy  of  mine  may  make  any  allegation  he  or  she  may  see  fit  as 
to  the  causes  behind  your  request  for  my  resignation,  and  I  am  help- 
less. I  have  pleaded  with  you,  appealed  to  your  sense  of  right,  of- 
fered myself  for  any  investigation,  in  order  that  you  may  assign  to 
me  some  reason  for  your  peculiar  action,  even  though  it  be  so 
trivial  as  that  I  have  brown  eyes.  But  you  decline  to  answer  at  all, 
except  to  remark  as  you  did  last  evening,  "Now  you  will  get  all 
that  is  coming  to  you."  Have  I  ever  asked  for  more  or  less?  All 
I  want  is  "All  that  is  coming  to  me." 

If  there  is  no  way  that  you  can  be  appealed  to  as  men,  then  I 
shall  have  to  go  after  your  pocketbooks,  and  I  hereby  bind  myself 
to  turn  over  to  "charity"  the  amount  of  any  judgment  I  may  secure 
against  you.  less  expenses.  If  I  obtain  no  judgment  at  all,  I  shall 
have  got  what  I  want,  viz. :  a  reason  for  your  action.  My  life 
contains  no  secrets  (and  perhaps  yours  doesn't),  and  I  cannot  rest 
under  the  insinuation  that  it  does. 

Be  assured  that  I  shall  use  every  weapon  I  can  command  to 
obtain  for  myself  simple  justice  in  this  matter.  No  man  worthy  of 
the  name  could  do  otherwise. 

Yours  truly, 

(Signed)  Harry, 

—45— 


5023  Delmar  Boulevard. 


August  11,  1911. 

D.  G.  Taylor,  Esq., 

City. 
Dear  Sir: 

Since  writing  you,  it  occurred  to  me  why  not  have  the  Board 
of  the  Country  Club  write  me  a  letter  asking  my  resignation  on 
the  ground  that  I  am  persona  non  grata  to  a  member  of  the  Board, 
or  of  the  Club.  In  the  event  they  will  do  this  I  will  resign  from  both 
the  Country  and  Racquet  Clubs,  and  forget  it.  There  is  no  trick 
in  this.  I  have  no  desire  to  do  anything  other  than  to  be  permitted 
to  resign  without  implied  disgrace.  I  have  never  consciously  done 
anything  to  any  member  of  the  Country  Club,  and  this  vindictive- 
ness  is  puzzling  to  me.  I  cannot  see  how  any  body  of  sensible  men 
can  expect  me  to  tactily  admit  that  I  am  guilty  of  some  outrageous 
thing  that  makes  association  possible  with  me  no  longer.  To  strike 
as  they  did  without  warning,  after  all  these  years  of  membership 
and  pleasant  relations,  is  incomprehensible  to  me.  Even  a  rattle- 
snake warns  before  it  strikes,  but  rattlesnakes  are  true  to  their  in- 
stincts— men  are  not. 

Will  you  advise  me  what  you  think  of  this  and  whether  you 
will  recommend  it  or  not,  so  that  I  may  know  how  to  act.  Surely 
this  much  is  due  me  from  you. 

Yours  truly, 

(Signed)    H.  S.  Turner,  Jr. 


Jesse  McDonald.  Daniel  Taylor. 

Mcdonald  &  taylor. 

Attorneys  and  Counselors  at  Law. 
Third  National  Bank  Building. 
St.  Louis. 

August  22,  1911. 

Dear  Harry : 

I  have  yours  of  the  19th  inst.,  and  have  delayed  writing  be- 
cause I  have  hardly  known  just  what  to  say. 

You  probably  do  not  realize  that  in  each  of  your  letters  you 
insert  some  sentence  that  makes  it  a  little  bit  difficult  to  answer 
you  calmly.    (Rather  amusing,  this. — H.  S.  T.) 

I  do  not  believe  that  I  can  succeed  in  getting  the  Board  of  the 
Country  Club  to  comply  with  your  request,  to  the  effect  that  they 
stated  that  your  resignation  was  requested  on  the  ground  that  you 
were  "persona  non  grata  to  a  member  of  the  Board  or  of  the  Club." 
1  cannot  speak  for  the  Board,  nor  do  I  feel  at  liberty  to  make  any 
statement  with  respect  to  their  action.  But  I  will,  as  soon  as  the 
Board  convenes,  present  your  request  that  they  formulate  some 
charge  against  you,  or  make  a  statement  to  you  of  their  reasons  for 
requesting  your  resignation. 

The  Board  must  decide  as  a  body  what  it  will  do  in  the  prem- 
ises. I  can  neither  speak  for  them  nor  decide  this  matter  for  them. 

—46— 


It  is  needless  for  me  to  say  to  you  that  there  are  many  reasons 
why  the  existing  situation  is  particularly  distressing  to  me. 

Yours  truly, 

(Signed)  Dan. 

Harrv  S.  Turner,  Jr.,  Esq,, 
5023  Delmar  Blvd., 
St.  Louis,  Mo. 


The  foregoing  letter  of  the  Honorable  Taylor's  I  think  contains 
the  real  comedy  "hit"  of  the  whole  affair.  I  refer  to  the  uYou  prob- 
ably do  not  realize"  which  begins  the  second  paragraph  of  his  able 
letter.  Note,  gentle  reader,  that  my  "persona  non  grata"  proposi- 
tion had  a  string  to  it.  Had  it  been  agreed  to,  I  should  have  asked 
in  my  usual  urbane  and  mild  manner  for  the  gentleman's  name,  and 
thus  the  whole  plot  would  have  been  revealed. 

The  following  letter  sounds  as  though  I  had  written  it  after 
talking  with  Teddy  Mallinckrodt.    It  is  so  serious  and  genuine. 

H.  S.  TURNER,  JR. 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard. 
St.  Louis. 

Sept.  27th,  1911. 

Board  of  Governors, 

Country  Club. 
Dear  Sirs : 

I  have  waited  patiently  for  several  months  thinking  I  would 
be  given  the  courtesy  of  some  explanation  of  your  request  for  my 
resignation  from  your  club. 

I  have  felt  from  the  first,  and  feel  even  more  strongly  now. 
that  to  resign  from  it  is  to  be  relieved  of  something  that  I  have 
outgrown ;  but  it  did  seem,  after  so  many  years  of  membership, 
during  which  I  was  never  conscious  of  enmity,  nor  ill-feeling",  and 
during  which  I  had  done  my  part  as  well  as  I  knew  how,  that  I 
was  at  least  entitled  to  a  reason  for  your  act.  You  evidently  do  not 
see  fit  to  give  one,  for  the  very  simple  reason  that  you  have  none,  so 
that  I  am  forced  to  arrive  at  a  conclusion  through  my  reasoning- 
powers. 

I,  have  examined  myself  fairly,  as  I  would  a  third  person  held 
at  arms  length,  and  find  nothing  in  my  life,  either  in  or  out  of  the 
club,  that  could  be  the  basis  of  this  affair. 

I  have  been  active  and  successful  in  many  occupations  since  my 
sixteenth  year.  I  have  always  been  on  the  side  of  culture — the 
broader  view  of  life.  My  interests,  outside  of  business,  have  had  a 
trend  toward  literature,  and  I  am  the  author,  over  a  pen  name,  of 
philosophical  articles  and  short  sketches  and  stories  in  some  maga- 
zines that  have  given  rise  to  comment. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  me  before  I  began  thinking  of  a  reason 
for  your  letter,  to  give  myself  much  thought  in  these  aspects ;  but 
a  system  of  elimination  brings  me  to  this  conclusion :  that  the  mat- 
ter is  one  of  personal  antagonism. 


I  have  put  the  following  questions  to  myself,  and  then  have 
answered  them  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  If  I  have  not  answered 
them  accurately  then  it  is  for  you  to  set  me  straight. 

Q.    Is  it  because  I  am  ill-bred? 

A.  No.  Because  no  one  in  the  city  has  a  longer  or  more  hon- 
orable lineage.  All  the  living  members  of  my  family  are  creditable 
men  and  women. 

O.  Is  it  because  I  am  not  honest  in  business  matters  ? 

A.  Tis  true  I  have  not  accumulated  a  great  deal  of  money,  but 
avarice  has  always  been  foreign  to  my  nature.  On  the  other  hand, 
no  man  can  say  I  have  ever  robbed  or  cheated  him, 

Q.    Is  it  because  I  am  personally  repugnant  to  other  members  ? 

A.  No,  for  I  have  been  much  sought  after  and  have  sought 
no  one. 

Q.    Is  it  because  I  have  been  connected  with  a  scandal? 
A.    The  Club  has  many  members  who  have  been,  but  I  have 
never  been. 

Q.    Is  it  because  I  have  violated  any  rule  or  law  of  the  Club? 
A.    No.   I  may  have  done  so.  but  I  am  unaware  of  it,  and  if  I 
had,  the  Board  would  allege  that  as  a  reason  for  this  letter. 
Q.    Is  it  because  of  my  opinions? 

A.  No,  for  no  one  but  myself  knows  what  they  are.  I  have 
created  some  fictional  characters  who  have  expressed  opinions,  but 
which  are  no  more  necessarily  mine,  than  because  an  author  creates 
a  murderer,  he  is  himself  one ;  and  besides,  punishment  for  opinions 
is  rather  medieval. 

Q.  Is  it  because  some  individual  in  the  Board  has  conceived 
a  hatred  of  me — not  for  the  qualities  I  lack,  but  for  the  qualities  I 
have? 

A.  Yes.  There  is  no  other  answer.  There  is  an  alchemy 
in  hatred  as  there  is  in  friendship,  and  there  is  no  accounting  for 
it.  There  was  but  one  way  that  this  person  could  make  me  con- 
scious of  his  existence,  and  that  was  to  attack  me  from  behind, 
and  from  the  ambush  of  a  board  of  directors,  as  he  has  done. 

I  am  fully  aware  that  there  is  no  real  power  behind  the  let- 
ter of  the  Board:  that  it  resolves  itself  into  merely  an  anony- 
mous and  gratuitous  insult,  and  I  could  ignore  it  if  I  cared  to,  and 
nothing  further  would  come  of  it. 

But  permit  me  to  call  your  attention  to  one  thing :  A  rule 
permitting  you  to  write  a  letter  of  that  sort,  will  in  the  end  re- 
duce your  club  to  a  very  low  standard.  A  man  of  delicacy  and 
breeding  will,  of  course,  retire  upon  receipt  of  such  a  communica- 
tion, but  your  thick-skinned  individual  will  ignore  it.  In  the  end 
the  vulgarian  must  triumph.  He  gets  into  the  Board  by  asserting 
himself,  and  then  tries  to  eliminate  other  members  of  better  blood, 
brains  and  culture,  in  order  to  make  himself  comfortable. 

You  see,  you  must  pardon  me  for  speaking  up  for  myself,  but 
what  can  one  do  when  he  is  being  attacked  from  several  sides,  not 
for  what  he  has  done,  but  for  what  he  is? 

No,  Gentlemen,  your  club  has  been  used  to  vent  a  personal 
spite.    So  be  it!    Life  is  a  road  we  are  all  traveling,  and  if  one 

—48— 


stops  to  throw  stones  at  every  dog  that  barks  at  his  heels,  he  is 
nowhere  when  evening  comes. 

Please  accept  my  resignation,  and  let  us  call  the  incident 
closed.  I  do  not  to  this  day  know  who  the  directors  are.  with  the 
exception  of  one.  so  that  when  we  meet  it  will  be  they  who  are  em- 
barrassed and  not  I.  Yours  truly, 

(Signed)  H.  S.  Turner. 

Nothing  more  happened  it  seems  until  Mr.  G.  H.  Walker  got 
excited  and  wrote  the  following  letter.  G.  H.  stands  for  George 
Herbert,  who  if  I  mistake  not,  was  a  learned  divine  who  wrote 
some  theological  works  in  England  some  centuries  ago  (I  have  no 
memory  for  dates — unless  they  are  in  the  future).  The  present 
George  Herbert's  letter  shows  that  he  has  profited  by  being  named 
after  so  illustrious  a  man. 

I  append  his  communication,  together  with  my  poor  reply, 
from  which  it  will  be  observed  that  I  do  not  believe  in  fighting  the 
devil  with  fire — in  fact  that  is  the  only  thing  he  should  not  be 
fought  with.    It  is  giving  him  too  great  an  advantage. 

G.  H.  WALKER. 
Saint  Louis. 

H.  S.  Turner,  Jr.,  Esq..  October  6th.  1911. 

Dear  Sir: 

Mr.  Gratz  informs  me  today  that  he  has  received  from  the 
secretary  of  the  Country  Club  your  resignation  to  the  Club,  and 
that  you  attribute  the  previous  action  of  the  Board  to  the  influence 
of  one  of  the  directors  who  is  your  personal  enemy.  As  I  have 
heard  from  several  sources  since  my  return  home,  that  I  am  the 
enemy  referred  to,  I  wish  to  say  in  justice  to  myself  that  I  have 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  I  was  not  present  at  the  meet- 
ing at  which  the  action  was  taken  and  had  no  knowledge  that 
charges  were  to  be  preferred  against  you,  nor  that  your  name 
would  come  before  the  meeting  in  any  manner  whatsoever.  Neither 
had  I  ever,  to  my  recollection,  discussed  your  name  with  any  mem- 
ber of  the  Board,  with  the  exception  of  Judge  Taylor  when  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Racquet  Club  Board  and  then  regarding  Racquet  Club 
affairs.  I  am  not  seeking  to  avoid  any  responsibility  and  had  I  been 
''after  you,"  as  I  am  told  you  think.  I  would  not  have  taken  this 
method  of  trving  to  show  it.  Very  truly  yours, 

(Signed)    G.  H.  Walker. 


_H.  S.  TURNER.  JR. 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard. 
St.  Louis. 

Mr,  G.  H.  Walker.  Oct.  7,  1911. 

St.  Louis,  Mo. 
Dear  Bert : 

If  others  knew  what  I  am  thinking,  thev'd  know  as  much  as 

I  do. 

You  ought  to  ask  Gratz  to  show  you  that  letter.  The  Club  asks 
me  to  resign  and  assigns  no  reason.    I  metaphorically  get  on  my 

—49— 


knees  to  them  in  my  effort  to  get  at  a  reason.  They  sit  m  smug 
and  stupid  silence.  Therefore  I  was  forced  to,  by  logic,  arrive  at  as 
conclusion  that  would  satisfy  my  reason.  I  racked  my  brain  for 
nights  and  days.  I  had  violated  no  rule  or  law  of  the  club.  I  was 
absolutely  clear  on  all  points.  I  examined  myself  ruthlessly,  and  the 
conclusion  was  finally  forced  on  me  that  it  was  a  case  of  personal 
animus.    Eliminating  all  other  causes,  this  was  what  remained. 

My  letter  did  just  what  I  hoped  and  expected  it  would  do, 
viz. :  bring  home  to  the  Board  the  absurdity  of  not  informing  me  of 
the  reason  of  their  action.  It  is  not  only  unjust  to  me,  it  is  equally 
so  to  you.  You  say  you  had  no  connection  with  the  matter,  which 
is  no  doubt  true.  But  why  in  the  name  of  common  sense 
doesn't  the  Board  wrrite  me  that,  instead  of  letting  you  do  it,  in 
justice  to  you  and  me;  and  then  why  doesn't  it  go  on  and  finish 
the  matter  up  by  writing  me  a  simple  and  dignified  letter  alleging 
some  cause — any  cause — I  don't  care  what? 

My  whole  point  in  this  matter  has  been  from  the  beginnings 
that  the  only  thing  objectionable  to  me  was  the  mystery  atmosphere, 
I  insisted,  begged,  cajoled,  implored,  threatened — to  no  purpose. 
No,  the  Board  is  deaf  and  blind.  A  man  who  has  been  a  member  for 
the  best  fifteen  years  of  his  life  is  suddenly  written  a  grossly  in- 
sulting letter  by  a  set  of  men  whom  he  had  no  reason  to  regard 
other  than  as  friends,  and  then  is  refused  the  courtesy  of  a  simple 
explanation. 

I  don't,  in  my  heart,  think  the  Board  of  Governors  are  in- 
tentionally injuring  me.  But  they  are  behaving  in  a  rather  stupid 
manner.  They,  no  doubt  through  a  misconception,  arrived  at  an  es- 
timate of  me  that  seemed  to  them  at  the  time,  to  justify  their  action, 
and  now  that  they  are  in  a  hole,  they  don't  know  how  to  get  out  of 
it. 

I  have  never  mentioned  this  subject  outside  of  the  Board  until 
someone  first  mentioned  it  to  me,  and  yet  the  matter  is  a  town 
scandal.  The  man  who  is  responsible  for  that  should  be  asked  to 
resign,  surely. 

The  idea  of  your  animus  toward  me  came  first  from  that  old 
lady,  Isaac  Cook,  and  he  never  fails  to  inform  me  that  you  "Have 
it  in  for  me"  and  repeats  to  me  something  that  you  have  said  of  me. 
There  was  no  escaping  my  conclusion.  The  road  ran  straight,  with 
no  turns.  Now,  that  you  destroy  that  theory,  the  thing  is  a  greater 
mystery  than  ever.  So  long  as  it  is  a  mystery,  so  long  will  it  be  a 
scandal.  If  ever  a  man's  life  was  "open  for  inspection,"  mine  is. 
Though  the  Board  would  be  just  as  wrong  in  its  position  if  I  were 
a  moral  leper.  Why  don't  those  giant  intellects  in  the  Board  either 
make  a  case  against  me  or  capitulate  ? 

Are  they  afraid  of  legal  action?  Please  quiet  their  fears. 
They  are  damaging  me  now  by  asking  me  to  resign,  spreading  the 
news  and  refusing  a  reason,  but  I  don't  care  for  the  hundred  thou- 
sand or  so,  I  could  get  by  suing,  because,  believe  it  or  not  as  you 
wish,  I  am  afraid  of  too  much  money.  I've  seen  too  many  men 
ruined  by  it.    Not  enough  has  never  hurt  any  one. 

—50— 


Permit  me  one  word  more.  Were  I  as  stupid,  as  mean,  as 
short-sighted  and  as  small  as  the  Board  of  Governors  of  the  Coun- 
ty Club,  I  could  say  to  you  now,  "I  don't  believe  what  your  note 
contains,"  and  force  the  Board  to  cease  ignoring  me. 

From  a  material  standpoint  I  am  delighted  to  be  rid  of  the 
Country  Club,  but  the  underhanded,  cowardly  manner  in  which  I 
was  handled  has  given  me  an  object  in  life.  For  two  years  past 
I've  wondered  why  I  contributed  $100.00  a  year  toward  the  sup- 
port of  an  old,  broken-down  club  house,  and  the  poorest  golf  links, 
without  exception,  around  St.  Louis.  Perhaps  it  was  on  account  of 
the  social  prestige (  ?)  it  gave  me.  I  pause  to  smile.  Society  doesn't 
interest  me  nearly  so  much  as  I  seem  to  interest  it. 

Pardon  the  length  of  this  epistle,  but  I  am  rather  full  of  the 
subject,  and  when  I  get  on  it,  never  know  when  to  stop. 

Yours  truly, 

H.  S.  Turner. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Speaking  of  philosophy  (not  that  anyone  was,  but  why  not,  as 
Maurice  Ketten  says),  there  are  worse  philosophers  than  Tod 
Sloan,  the  one-time  premier  jockey  of  the  world.  I  remember 
once  when  he  was  valetting  me  in  a  "gentleman's"  race  at  the  old 
Fair  Grounds  some  advice  he  gave  me  before  the  start.  ''Remember, 
they  don't  pay  off  in  the  back  stretch,"  said  Tod.  "Wait,  wait, 
they'll  come  back  to  you."  It  turned  out  on  that  occasion,  that  I 
was  so  engaged  in  thinking  of  Tod's  philosophy  that  I  forgot  to 
win  at  any  stage  of  the  race,  but  that  doesn't  disprove  the  philoso- 
phy. 

And  Brooklyn  Tommy  Sullivan,  that  great  little  general  of  the 
prize  ring,  he  has  a  philosophy,  too.  It  is  idle  to  deny  that  Attell 
can  box  rings  around  him,  and  yet  there  is  no  record  of  its  having 
availed  Abie.  Tommy  used  to  say  to  me,  "Make  the  other  guy 
lead — make  him  come  to  you  and  stall  while  you're  strong.  The 
secret  of  de  game,"  he  would  iterate,  "is  to  make  him  lead  and 
miss  and  den  you  kin  do  what  you  want  wit  him.  Hold  your  punch 
— never  hit  him  as  hard  as  you  kin  'till  you  git  him  where  you  kin 
knock  him  out." 

I  think  one  of  the  most  profound  things  that  was  ever  uttered 
is  that  of  Wilde's  :  "What  one  does  in  one's  secret  chamber,  he  will 
some  day  shout  from  the  housetops."   I  have  tried  to  live  in  accord - 

—51— 


ance  with  the  suggestion  contained  in  that  wonderful  bit  of  psy- 
chology with  indifferent  success,  but  that  is  not  the  point.  I  wish 
to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  psychology  is  fast  becoming  so 
exact  a  science  that  one  with  the  gift  of  it  can  read  in  the  faces  of 
men  the  story  of  their  secret  lives.  He  can  recognize  at  a  glance 
the  man  who  has  spent  his  day  behind  closed  doors  in  a  down 
town  office  scheming  devilment,  or  in  the  face  of  the  society 
woman,  he  can  see  the  starved  maternal  instinct,  the  cruel  lust 
for  power,  the  perverted  womanliness.  Psychology  is  the  greater 
politics. 

All  things  extremely  anti,  or  extremely  pro,  are  funny  in  vary- 
ing degree,  but  a  female  anti-suffragist  is  the  quintessence  of  amus- 
ing things.  The  only  possible  excuse  for  her  position  is  the  desire 
for  a  "miserable  ease,"  but  she  has  not  the  intelligence  to  know 
that  to  be  anti-suffrage  at  this  time  is  not  the  way  to  secure  it.  I 
love  to  see  a  great  locomotive  spin  its  drivers  when  starting  a  heavy 
train.  It  is  such  an  inspiring  exhibition  of  power.  The  anti-suf- 
fragist is  the  grease  on  the  rails  that  causes  the  engine  to  spin  its 
drivers.  The  militant  suffragist  is  the  one  redeeming  feature  in 
modern  life,  the  one  puzzling  feature  to  a  philosopher.  She  is 
the  only  sign  pointing  away  from  decadence.  How  long  has  it  been 
since  anyone  died  for  a  principle?  Quite  a  time,  I  believe.  The 
action  of  the  young  militant  who  threw  herself  under  the  King's 
horse,  would  have  stirred  the  poets  of  other  days,  but  nothing  stirs 
a  modern  poet  except  erotica  or  money. 


-52— 


CHAPTER  XII. 


It  is  very  difficult  for  me  to  hold  to  the  subject-matter  of  this 
book.  I'm  so  much  more  interested  in  other  things — but  to  return 
to  our  pork  chops : 

About  this  time  there  was  another  lull  in  the  correspondence 
and  I  found  myself  wondering  if  all  this  tempest  in  a  tea  cup  had 
been  stirred  up  by  some  action  of  an  ancestor  of  mine,  and  not  being 
familiar  with  my  own  genealogy,  I  resolved  to  look  into  it.  Meet- 
ing my  cousin.  Mrs.  Elisha  Dyer,  Jr.,  on  the  street  in  New  York, 
and  knowing  that  she  had  followed  this  sort  of  thing,  I  asked  her  if 
any  of  us  had  ever  been  hung.  Next  morning  she  sent  me  the  fol- 
lowing, which  if  correct,  shows  that  I  have  no  excuse  for  having 
been  asked  to  resign  from  the  Country  Club,  nor  for  any  other 
disreputable  action  of  which  I  may  be  guilty,  so  far  as  my  pater- 
nal inheritance  goes. 

"The  spelling  of  the  name  Turner  is  of  no  moment,  as  it  varies 
even  among  first  cousins  of  the  direct  line,  and  is  variously  spelled 
as  follows :  Tour-noir,  Tournour,  Tumour,  and  Turner,  as  pro- 
nounced in  Virginia  since  1708. 

The  original  seat  of  the  family  in  Normandy  was  Le  Tournoir 
(The  Black  Tower)  from  which  comes  the  name,  and  its  owners 
were  known  as  "je  Suis  de  Tournoir"  and  bore  the  motto  e'Epec 
Quane  VMese"  (to  be — not  to  seem  to  be). 

A  visit  to  the  family  graveyard  of  the  Virginia  branch  at 
Smith's  Mount,  Westmoreland  County,  Virginia,  in  1854,  showed 
the  graves  to  have  been  well  cared  for.  Beneath  the  inscription  on 
the  tomb  of  Major  Harry  Turner,  of  King  George,  could  be  seen 
deeply  and  beautifully  carved  the  Turner  coat  of  arms,  "He 
beareth  ermine  on  a  quarter-pierced  argent,"  by  name  Turner 
of  Parendon  in  Essex,  Kt.  Crest :  Lion  Rampant,  supporting 
an  hour  glass. 

The  first  of  the  line  known  to  English  history  was  Edward 
(  Tournour)  Turner,  a  Norman  Knight  of  noble  origin,  who  went 
to  England  with  the  Conqueror,  and  was  rewarded  for  his  valor 
by  large  grants  of  land,  and  was  seated  at  Haverill  in  Suffolk. 
Arthur  Turner,  a  descendant,  was  a  bencher  of  the  Middle  Tem- 
ple in  the  reign  of  James  I,  and  Edward,  his  son,  was  Captain  of 
the  King's  Guard,  in  the  time  of  Charles  I,  and  was  seated  at  Lit- 
tle Paringdon,  Essex. 

During  the  political  changes  of  that  period  the  Turner  fam- 
ily suffered  many  hardships.  Their  lands  were  confiscated  and 
many  of  the  family  were  imprisoned  and  many  suffered  death, 
but  Edward  (Tournour)  Turner,  a  direct  descendant  of  the  Nor- 
man Knight  of  the  same  name,  born  in  1617  at  the  home  of  his 
uncle,  Sir  Thomas  Moulson,  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  in  Thread- 

—53— 


needle  street,  London,  rose  to  distinction  and  in  a  measure  re- 
trieved the  family  fortunes.  Educated  at  Oxford  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  Middle  Temple  in  1634,  and  called  to  the  bar  in 
1640;  was  in  Cromwell's  second  and  third  Parliaments,  represent- 
ing Essex ;  was  also  in  the  Parliaments  of  Richard,  the  Protector 
(1658)  ;  was  again  in  Parliament  in  1660,  and  in  1662  was  re- 
stored his  title  and  estates,  and  immediately  on  the  restoration 
was  counsel  for  the  King  in  the  trial  of  the  regicides,  and  espe- 
cially distinguished  himself  in  those  of  Harrison  and  Cook  (see 
''Old  Judges").  Was  elected  speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons 
and  held  that  position  for  twelve  years ;  was  solicitor  general  to 
the  King  and  made  Chief  Baron  of  the  Exchequer,  which  position 
he  held  for  four  years.  Died  March,  1676,  and  was  buried  in  the 
chancel  of  Little  Paringdon  Church,  Essex. 

Sir  Edward  Turner,  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  was  twice 
married.  The  oldest  son  by  his  first  wife  was  Sir  Edward 
Turner,  member  of  Parliament  from  Oxford,  in  Suffolk,  whose 
daughter,  Sarah,  was  the  grandmother  of  Edward  Turner  Garth, 
and  was  in  1761  created  Baron  and  in  1675  Earl  of  Winterton. 

Sir  Gregory  Page,  dying  without  issue,  his  title  and  estate 
descended  to  his  nephew,  Arthur  Turner;  hence  the  blending  of 
the  Page-Turner  arms. 

Dr.  Thomas  Turner,  brother  of  the  first  Sir  Edward  above 
mentioned,  better  known  as  Turner  of  Walsingham,  was  born  at 
Little  Paringdon,  Essex,  in  1619;  was  educated  at  Oxford,  mar- 
ried and  came  to  Virginia  about  1650.  He  took  up  large  grants 
of  land  in  King  George,  Essex  and  Prince  William  Counties, 
known  as  Walsingham,  Natzattico,  Port,  Conway,  etc.,  and  was 
first  of  his  line  in  Virginia ;  was  late  in  life  legal  heir  to  the  fam- 
ily title  and  estates,  but  for  political  reasons  refused  to  return  to 
England  to  secure  them ;  died  at  Walsingham  leaving  a  son, 
Thomas  Turner  II,  who  married  in  1711,  Martha,  the  daughter  of 
Colonel  Richard  Talifaerro,  and  had  Major  Harry  Turner  of 
King  George,  who  married  Elizabeth,  daughter  and  heiress  of 
Colonel  Nicholas  Smith,  of  Smith's  Mount,  Westmoreland 
County,  Virginia,  by  whom  he  had  three  sons,  only  one  of  whom 
lived,  namely :  Thomas  Turner  III,  who  married  Jane,  daughter  of 
Colonel  William  Faunt  le  Roy,  of  Naylor's  Hold,  Richmond 
County,  Virginia ;  fourth  in  descent  from  Moore  Faunt  le  Roy, 
first  of  his  line  in  America  and  twenty-fifth  in  the  line  of  descent 
from  Henry  I,  of  France,  and  Ann  of  Russia,  through  the  mar- 
riage of  Tristan  Fauntleroy,  in  1539,  to  John  Stourton,  daughter 
of  Lord  Stourton.  So  it  will  be  seen  that  the  Turners  also  trace 
to  the  baronial  house  of  Stourton  Fitz-Harding  and  Berkely  in 
Gloucester,  England,  and  the  feudal  houses  of  Courtenay  and 
De  Lusignan,  of  France.  (See  Brown's  "Americans  of  Royal 
Descent.") 

Thomas  Turner  III,  and  Jane  Faunt  le  Roy,  his  wife,  had 
issue  as  follows :  Elizabeth  Taliaferro,  Harry  Smith,  Richard, 
George,  Jane,  Faunt  le  Roy,  Thomas  and  Marie.  Elizabeth  mar- 
ried Charles  Cooke,  of  Charles  City  County,  Virginia.  Henry 

—54— 


Smith,  second  child  and  eldest  son,  born  1770,  inherited  Smith's 
Mount,  Westmoreland  County,  and  Wheatlands,  Jefferson 
County,  and  in  1796  married  Catherine  Scott  Blackburn,  daugh- 
ter of  Colonel  Thomas  Blackburn,  of  Ripon  Lodge,  Prince  Will- 
iam County,  Virginia,  and  his  wife,  Christian  Scott,  who  was 
daughter  of  Rev.  James  Scott,  of  Westwood,  Prince  William  Coun- 
ty, Virginia,  and  wife,  Sarah  Brown  Scott,  eldest  of  the  ''lovely 
nine,"  consequently  daughter  of  Francis  Fowke  and  Dr.  Gustavus 
Brown  of  Nanjemoy,  Charles  County,  Maryland. 

Colonel  Henry  Smith  Turner  and  his  wife,  Catherine  Scott 
Blackburn,  had  issue  as  follows :  Susan,  married  Alibone ;  Jane, 
married  Byrd ;  Christine,  married  Cordell ;  George,  Bushrod 
Washington  and  William  Fauntleroy.  George  Turner,  major  in 
the  United  States  Army,  was  killed  at  Harpers  Ferry  during  the 
John  Brown  raid.  Bushrod  Washington  Turner  was  lost  at  sea. 
AVilliam  Fauntleroy  Turner  married  Ellen  Beirne ;  issue  one 
daughter,  who  married  Colonel  John  Selden  Saunders,  United 
States  Army  and  Confederate  Army;  issue  Ellen  Beirne  Saun- 
ders, who  married  Steward,  United  States  Navy;  W.  F.  Turner 
Saunders,  United  States  Navy.  Sidney  Patterson  Saunders  mar- 
ried Vernon,  United  States  Navy,  and  Martha  Saunders  married 
Charles  Carroll  of  Baltimore. 

William  Fauntleroy  Turner  married,  second,  Sidney  Patter- 
son, of  Baltimore ;  issue  Sidney  Smith  Turner,  who  married  first 
Donnell  Swan ;  issue  Laura  Patterson  Swan,  second  husband 
Elisha  Dyer,  Jr.,  of  Newport,  R.  I. 

Thomas  Turner  IV,  son  of  Thomas  III,  married  Eliza  Ran- 
dolph, daughter  of  Colonel  Robert  Randolph,  of  Eastern  View, 
Fauquier  County,  Virginia;  issue  Major  Harry  Smith  Turner, 
United  States  Army,  of  St.  Louis,  who  married  Julia  Hunt. 

The  Lees,  Turners,  Fauntleroys,  Harrisons,  Washingtons. 
Lewises,  Taliaferros,  St.  Georges,  Tuckers,  Beverle}^s  and  many 
other  colonial  families  are  descendants  of  the  original  Sir  Edward 
Turner." 

*  *  * 

Major  Harry  Smith  Turner  and  Julia  Hunt  were  my  grand- 
parents. My  father  was  Thomas  T.  Turner  and  my  mother  is 
Harriet  S.  Turner — nee  Brown,  of  Tennessee. 

On  my  mother's  side  I  find  there  have  been  some  "cut  ups." 
For  instance,  there  was  my  grandfather,  who  was  a  friend  and 
disciple  of  Lord  Byron's  and  who  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to 
him.  They  say  he  was  a  very  bad  boy.  He  took  the  "short  way 
out  of  it"  at  thirty-three.  Then  there  was  old  General  Ewell, 
who  was  most  eccentric,  and  who  liked  to  be  left  alone  for  days, 
and  would  never  permit  anyone  in  his  apartments.  And  then, 
on  the  other  side,  was  General  Lee,  himself,  wrho  it  seems  was  a 
rebellious  spirit,  still  I  have  never  been  conscious  of  a  warlke 
tendency.    I  vastly  prefer  peace  on  any  decent  terms. 


—55— 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


The  correspondence  next  following  would  be  exceedingly 
dry  and  uninteresting  were  not  the  reader  behind  the  scenes,  so 
to  speak.  From  that  vantage  point  we  can  instruct  ourselves 
by  observing  the  business  methods  of  clubs  and  organizations, 
operated  by  great  business  men.  I  am  so  accustomed  to  being 
patronized  by  business  men  that  I  have  come  to  enjoy  it.  Note 
how  that  great  business  genius,  George  Herbert  Walker,  sold 
my  stock  for  my  account  by  taking  it  over  to  the  St.  Louis  Union 
Trust  Company  and  handing  it  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Club. 
The  usual  commission  in  the  brokerage  business,  I  believe,  is  one- 
quarter  of  one  per  cent,  but  in  this  instance  I  was  not  charged 
anything. 

NEW  ST.  LOUIS  COUNTRY  CLUB. 
Office  of  Secretary. 

H.  H.  Langenberg,  Secretary, 
Chamber  of  Commerce  Bldg. 

St.  Louis,  Mo.,  Oct.  14,  1911. 

Mr.  H.  S.  Turner,  Jr., 
5023  Delmar  Ave., 
City. 
Dear  Sir: — 

Your  letter  of  the  13th  to  hand,  and  contents  noted. 

I  enclose  you  Certificate  of  Membership  in  the  New  St. 
Louis  Country  Club. 

Please  send  to  me  the  receipt  issued  you  by  the  St.  Louis 
Union  Trust  Co.,  for  the  share  of  stock  which  you  turned  in  to  the 
old  St.  Louis  Country  Club. 

The  reason  for  my  delay  in  answering  your  several  letters 
is  due  to  the  fact  that  I  have  been  out  of  the  city  for  the  past 
few  months. 

I  am,  Yours  very  truly, 

(Signed)    H.  H.  Langenberg. 


H.  S.  TURNER,  JR., 
St.  Louis. 

G.  H.  Walker,  Esq.,  Broker,  St.  Louis,  Oct.  14,  1911. 

St.  Louis. 
Dear  Bert. 

I  enclose  certificate  of  stock  in  the  Country  Club.  Please 
have  the  same  sold  for  my  account  in  the  regular  course  of 
business,  and  oblige,  Yours  truly, 

G.  H.  Walker,  St.  Louis.  (Signed)    H.  S.  Turner.  Jr. 

—56— 


October  17th,  1911. 

Dear  Harry : 

Yours  of  the  16th  with  certificates  of  C.  C.  received. 
I  have  sent  same  over  to  Tom  West,  Jr.,  Treasurer,  and  he 
advises  me  that  he  will  remit  directly  to  you  a  check  for  Four 
Hundred  Dollars. 

Trusting  that  it  will  reach  you.  in  due  time,  I  am, 

Faithfully  yours, 
(Signed)    G.  H.  Walker. 
To  H.  S.  Turner,  Jr.,  Esq.,  Xo.  5023  Delmar  Avenue,  St.  Louis, 
Missouri. 


H.  S.  TURNER.  JR.. 
St.  Louis. 

St.  Louis,  Mo.,  Oct.  19,  1911. 
To  the  Board  of  Governors,  C.  C. 

On  July  1st,  I  received  the  following  letter  from  the  Board 
of  Governors  of  the  Country  Club,  which  seemed  to  imply,  that 
if  I  resigned  they  would  tell  me  the  reason  for  writing  letter  of 
June  6th : 

"Answering  your  letter  of  June  29.  The  request  of  the 
board  for  your  resignation  has  never  been  complied  with. 
Therefore  it  is  impossible  to  give  you  any  answer  at  this  time.'" 

During  the  latter  part  of  July  and  early  August  (I  made  no 
memorandum  of  the  date)  Mr.  Lee  Benoist  told  me  that  Mr. 
Walker  had  been  to  see  him,  or  that  he  had  met  him,  and  that 
Mr.  Walker  had  told  him  to  tell  me  that  if  I  would  resign  from 
the  club,  that  their  letter  requesting  my  resignation  would  be 
withdrawn.  I  told  Mr.  Benoist  to  tell  Mr.  Walker  that  he  had 
conveyed  the  message  to  me,  and  that  there  was  no  answer. 

On  August  22nd  I  received  the  following  letter  from  Dan'l. 
G.  Taylor,  a  member  of  your  board : — 

"I  have  yours  of  the  19th  inst.,  and  have  delayed  writing  be- 
cause I  have  hardly  known  just  what  to  say. 

"You  probably  do  not  realize  that  in  each  of  your  letters  you 
insert  some  sentence  that  makes  it  a  little  bit  difficult  to  answer 
you  calmly." 

"I  do  not  believe  that  I  can  succeed  in  getting  the  Board  of 
the  Country  Club  to  comply  with  your  request,  to  the  effect  that 
they  stated  that  your  resignation  was  requested  on  the  ground 
that  you  were  "persona  non  grata"  to  a  member  of  the  Board  or 
of  the  Club.  I  cannot  speak  for  the  board,  nor  do  I  feel  at  libertv 
to  make  any  statement  with  respect  to  their  action.  But  I  will, 
as  soon  as  the  board  convenes,  present  your  request  that  they 
formulate  some  charge  against  you,  or  make  a  statement  to  you 
of  their  reasons  for  requesting  your  resignation. 

"The  board  must  decide  as  a  body  what  it  will  do  in  the 
premises.  I  can  neither  speak  for  them  nor  decide  this  matter 
for  them. 


—57— 


"It  is  needless  for  me  to  say  to  you  that  there  are  many  rea- 
sons why  the  existing  situation  is  particularly  distressing  to  me.'7 

Today  I  received  another  letter  from  D.  G.  Taylor  as  follows : — 

"It  is  utterly  impossible  for  me  to  say  to  you  what  action  the 
Board  of  Directors  of  the  Country  Club  are  going  to  take.  I  was 
not  present  at  the  last  meeting  and  have  not  heard  what  action 
was  taken.  I  am  afraid  that  you  take  an  exaggerated  view  of  the 
importance  of  the  attitude  of  the  club  on  the  subject." 

After  writing  numberless  letters,  and  using  ever}^  means  at 
my  command  to  induce  you  to  do  me  the  simple  justice  of  re- 
moving the  mystery  surrounding  your  letter  of  June  6th,  I  de- 
termined to  comply  with  your  letter  of  July  1st,  in  the  hope  that 
you  were  sincere  in  what  you  said  in  it,  and  on  September  27th  I 
wrote  you,  stating  that  I  would  resign  from  your  club. 

That  is  nearly  a  month  ago.  You  have  not  had  the  courtesy 
or  consideration  to  reply  to  that  letter,  or  acknowledge  it  in  any 
way. 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  G.  H.  Walker  came  to  me  in  the  Rac- 
quet Club  and  gave  me  his  verbal  promise  that  he  would  recom- 
mend that  the  board  write  me  the  letter  that  I  desired. 

Judge  Taylor  has  not  kept  his  promise  to  me,  the  Board  of 
Governors  have  not  kept  their  more  or  less  ambiguous  promise 
to  me,  and  of  course  I  have  no  means  of  knowing  whether  Mr, 
Walker  has  or  not. 

I  had  assumed  from  what  Mr.  Walker  told  me,  that  his  rec- 
ommendation would  be  sufficient  to  secure  for  me  the  letter  that 
I  desire,  and  on  that  assumption,  and  in  perfect  good  faith  I  sent 
him  my  certificate  of  stock,  and  asked  him  to  find  a  purchaser  for 
it.    I  received  from  him  today  the  following  letter: — 

"Yours  of  the  16th  with  certificate  of  C.  C.  received. 

"I  have  sent  same  over  to  Tom  West,  Jr.,  Treasurer,  and  he 
advises  me  that  he  will  remit  directly  to  you  a  check  for  Four 
Hundred  Dollars. 

"Trusting  that  it  will  reach  you  in  due  time,  I  am," 

I  also  enclose  copy  of  my  reply. 

Now  inasmuch  as  there  has  been  unquestionably,  according 
to  the  evidence,  a  deliberate  attempt  to  injure  me  in  the  eyes  of 
this  community,  and  inasmuch  as  you  have  not  seen  fit  to  carry 
out  any  of  your  promises  or  agreements,  verbal  or  otherwise,  I 
hereby  withdraw  my  resignation,  and  will  have  no  further  direct 
communication  with  your  board,  or  any  member  of  it. 

Yours  truly,  (Signed)    H.  S.  Turner. 

Mr.  Benj.  Gratz,  Pres.  New  St.  Louis  Country  Club,  St. 
Louis,  Missouri." 


H.  S.  TURNER,  JR. 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard, 
St.  Louis. 

Dear  Mr.  West:—  October  31,  1911. 

I  return  herewith  voucher  No.  741  for  Four  Hundred  Dol- 
lars ($400.00). 

—58— 


Please  see  my  letter  to  Mr.  G.  H.  Walker,  also  my  letter  to 
the  Board  of  Governors,  which  will  explain  my  action. 

Yours  very  truly, 
(Signed)    H.  S.  Turner. 
Mr.  Thomas  H.  West,  Jr.,  401  Locust  Street,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


ST.  LOUIS  COUNTRY  CLUB. 
Office  of  Treasurer. 

St.  Louis,  October  19th,  1911. 

Mr.  H.  S.  Turner,  Jr., 

5023  Delmar  Boulevard, 
St.  Louis,  Mo. 
Dear  Harry: 

Yours  of  the  19th  received.  You  are  evidently  under  a  mis- 
apprehension as  to  the  present  procedure  in  regard  to  the  trans- 
fer of  membership  in  the  Country  Club.  Under  the  old  organi- 
zation memberships  could  be  sold  and  the  certificate  transferred, 
but  under  the  present  order  of  things  when  a  resignation  be- 
comes effective  and  so  soon  as  the  board  elects  some  one  to  fill 
the  vacancy  a  check  for  $400.00  is  remitted  by  the  Treasurer  of 
-e  Country  Club  to  the  person  resigning.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  stock  ownership  any  more,  as  the  Club  now  has  the 
same  kind  of  charter  as  the  Racquet,  University  and  other  clubs. 
Hence  a  certificate  of  membership  after  a  member  has  resigned 
and  his  resignation  has  been  accepted  means  nothing,  excepting 
rhat  the  Treasurer  of  the  Club  will  demand  its  surrender  before 
remitting  the  $400.00. 

In  view  of  your  letter  I  will  ask  the  Treasurer  to  hold  off  for 
the  present  until  I  hear  further  from  you. 

Very  trulv  vours, 
(Signed)    G.  H.  Walker. 

P.  S. — There  is  no  way  of  doing  what  you  wish. 
GHW— MM  GHW. 


ST.  LOUIS  COUNTRY  CLUB. 
Office  of  Treasurer. 
Thos.  H.  West,  ]~r.,  Treas. 
401  Locust  St. 

St.  Louis,  October  19th,  1911. 

Mr.  H.  S.  Turner,  Tr., 
5023  Delmar  Blvd., 

St.  Louis,  Missouri. 
Dear  Sir: — 

Enclosed  find  check  for  $400.00,  redemption  of  your  mem- 
bership in  the  New  St.  Louis  Country  Club,  to  which  you  are  en- 
titled on  account  of  your  resignation  from  said  Club,  according 
to  the  By-Laws. 

Yours  truly, 
(Signed)    Thos.  H.  West,  Jr., 

Secy. 

—59— 


H.  S.  TURNER,  JR., 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard, 
St.  Louis. 

October  19,  1911. 

Dear  Bert : — 

I  was  surprised  to  receive  yours  of  the  17th,  this  morning. 
I  thought  my  letter  to  you,  enclosing  certificates  in  the  Country 
Club  was  explicit,  and  that  I  wrote  to  you  as  a  broker,  and  asked 
you  to  find  an  individual  to  purchase  the  certificate. 

I  had  no  idea  that  you  would  turn  it  over  to  the  Country 
Club  treasurer,  which  of  course  I  could  have  done  myself,  but, 
for  reasons  of  my  own,  did  not  wish  to  do  it. 

Will  you  kindly  write  to  the  Treasurer  of  the  Country  Club, 
and  get  possession  of  the  certificate  and  return  same  to  me. 

Thanking  you  in  advance,  I  am, 

Yours  truly, 
(Signed)    H.  S.  Turner. 
Mr.  G.  H.  Walker,  309  N.  4th  St,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


NEWT  ST.  LOUIS  COUNTRY  CLUB. 
Office  of  Secretary. 
H.  H.  Langenberg,  Secretary, 
Chamber  of  Commerce  Bldg. 

St.  Louis,  Mo,  Oct.  23,  1911. 

Mr.  H.  S.  Turner, 

City. 
Dear  Sir : — 

At  the  regular  monthly  meeting  of  the  Board  of  Governors 
of  the  New  St.  Louis  Country  Club,  held  October  12,  1911,  your 
letter  of  resignation  was  placed  before  the  board  and  it  was 
moved  and  voted  that  your  resignation  be  accepted. 

The  Treasurer  of  the  Club  will,  as  soon  as  your  membership 
is  disposed  of,  send  you  a  check  for  Four  Hundred  Dollars. 

Very  truly  yours, 
(Signed)    H.  H.  Langenberg,  Secy. 


ST.  LOUIS  COUNTRY  CLUB. 
Office  of  Treasurer. 
Thos.  H.  West,  Jr.,  Treas. 
401  Locust  St. 

St.  Louis,  October  25th,  1911, 

Mr.  H.  S.  Turner,  Jr., 
5023  Delmar  Blvd., 

St.  Louis,  Missouri. 
Dear  Harry: — 

I  am  in  receipt  of  your  letter  returning  voucher  issued  by 
New  St.  Louis  Country  Club  for  $400.00,  which  I  sent  you  in 
payment  for  your  membership. 

I  spoke  to  Bert  Walker  and  he  states  that  you  turned  in 
to  him  your  certificate  of  membership  asking  him  to  dispose  of 

—60— 


same  for  you.  I  think  that  you  have  the  wrong  impression 
about  the  way  this  business  is  now  handled. 

Before  the  Club  was  re-organized  we  had  certificates  of 
stock,  which  could  be  bought  and  sold,  but  in  the  Xew  Club  the 
retiring  member  has  nothing  that  he  can  dispose  of,  and  simply 
holds  a  certificate  of  membership,  which  is  nothing  more  than  a 
receipt  for  his  initiation  fee.  and  is  not  negotiable.  You,  no 
doubt,  have  the  Xew  Country  Club  Book,  and  if  you  will  read 
Section  9  of  Article  1  of  the  By-Laws  on  page  12,  this  matter  is 
fully  explained. 

The  rule  is  that  a  retiring  member  is  entitled  to  S400.00  when 
vacancy  caused  by  his  retirement  is  rilled,  so  I  herewith  return 
you  check,  and  trust  that  I  have  made  the  matter  plain. 

Yours  very  truly, 
(Sigend)    Thos.  H.  West,  Jr. 


H.  S.  TURNER,  JR. 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard, 
St.  Louis, 

October  26,  1911, 

Dear  Sir : — 

I  have  a  letter  from  Langenberg  this  morning  stating  that 
my  resignation  is  accepted. 

You  gentlemen  remind  me  of  the  Festive  Ostrich.  You 
think  that  because  your  heads  are  in  the  sand  that  nobody  can 
see  you. 

So  after  you  received  my  last  letter  you  consulted  your  by- 
laws and  made  a  discovery!  Your  stupidity  is  terrifying.  It  is 
only  equaled  by  your  heartlessness. 

Can  you  not  see  what  is  as  plain  as  a  pike  start;  that  it  is 
not  I  that  can  be  injured  in  this  skirmish?  In  fact  I  am  the  only 
one  who  can't  be  injured.  When  it  all  becomes  public,  it  may 
be  accepted  humorously — it  has  some  comedic  aspects — but  it 
might  not — might  not  I  said,  and  if  it  isn't,  it  may  result  in  serious 
complications — I  said  may;  and  all  because  you  haven't  sense 
enough  to  know  when  you  are  licked  and  are  not  men  enough  to 
say  "we  are  mistaken." 

I  wonder  how  the  women  of  the  Country  Club  and  of  the 
city  generally,  will  like  your  remark  to  me  in  your  office,  ''That 
they  have  to  be  protected" — a  vicious  calumny  of  every  woman 
who  goes  to  your  club.  Please  do  not  ''protect"  any  of  the 
women  members  of  my  family  who  may  go  out  there.  They  can 
take  care  of  themselves. 

To  foresee  your  last  letter  required  a  little  prophetic  quality, 
but  not  much. 

After  I  wrote  you  the  last  time,  I  made  a  rough  draft  of 
what  I  thought  your  reply  would  be,  and  gave  it  to  a  friend. 
Your  reply  is  not  word  for  word,  because  my  letter  was  written 
in  good  English,  but  with  that  exception  it  is  about  the  same. 

One  should  be  under  obligations  to  another  who  does  him 
an  injustice,  because  in  the  interim  between  when  the  latter  re- 

—61— 


sists  righting  the  wrong  and  when  he  finally  does  it,  he's  on  the 
griddle,  to  the  intense  amusement  of  the  first  party,  and  amuse- 
ment is  the  greatest  asset  we  have. 

I  think  Bert  Walker  has  the  best  head  among  you.  Its  the 
only  reason  I  deliberately  made  him  an  enemy,  that  I  might  have 
a  foil.  But  he  lost  the  road.  He  should  have  given  his  talents 
to  bigger  things  instead  of  to  the  Country  Club.  However  he  is 
acting  with  more  discretion  than  any  of  the  rest  of  you,  and 
while  that  is  not  much,  still  it  is  something,  and  even  the  devil 
isn't  such  an  awfully  bad  fellow,  come  to  know  him. 

Thanking  you  in  advance  for  your  letter  of  apology,  I  am 

Yours  respectfully, 
(Signed)    H.  S.  Turner. 

Mr.  Benj.  Gratz,  Pres., 
Country  Club, 

St.  Louis,  Mo.  October  26,  191 L 


H.  S.  TURNER,  JR., 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard, 
St.  Louis. 

Dear  Tom : 

I  have  yours  of  October  15th,  and  return  herewith  voucher 
for  $400.00. 

You  were  correct  in  a  sense,  for  I  was  laboring  under  the 
impression  that  the  certificate  was  the  same  as  stock,  and  I 
wanted  it  then  sold  in  the  regular  way  to  prove  my  sincerity  in  com- 
plying with  the  following  letter  of  the  board : 

July  1,  1911. 

"Mr.  H.  S.  Turner,  Jr., 

Saint  Louis,  Mo. 
Dear  Sir: — 

Answering  your  letter  of  June  29. 

The  request  of  the  board  for  your  resignation  has  never  been 
complied  with.  Therefore  it  is  impossible  to  give  you  any  an- 
swer at  this  time. 

Yours  truly, 

H.  H.  Langenberg, 

Secretary." 

I  did  this  for  the  purpose  of  exhausting  every  possible 
means  of  obtaining  from  your  board  the  simple  justice  of  a  rea- 
son for  your  previous  letter  requesting  my  resignation.  How- 
ever, if  you  will  refer  to  your  By-Laws  you  will  find  that  a  resig- 
nation is  not  effective  until  the  board  has  acted  on  it,  and  after 
waiting  nearly  a  month,  and  not  hearing  of  any  action  being 
taken,  I  withdrew  my  resignation  which  left  the  matter  exactly 
as  it  was  before  I  resigned. 

Therefore  you  will  see  that  it  is  necessary  to  accept  return 
of  this  voucher,  and  that  I  remain  a  member  until  the  matter  is 

—62— 


settled  to  my  satisfaction.  Surely  the  heathen  Chinee  has  noth- 
ing on  your  honorable  board. 

Yours  very  truly, 
(Signed)    H,  S,  Turner. 

Mr.  Thomas  H.  West,  Jr., 
401  Locust  Street, 
St.  Louis,  Mo, 


H.  S.  TURNER,  JR. 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard, 
St,  Louis. 

Dear  Dan  : 

Can  you  give  me  an  approximately  correct  idea  as  to  when  1 
am  going  to  "get  what  is  coming  to  me"  from  the  Country  Club. 
Fear  of  a  thing  is  always  worse  than  the  thing  itself,  and  nat- 
urally I  wish  to  cease  trembling  as  soon  as  possible. 

Sincerely, 
(Signed)    Harry  Turner. 

October  17,  1911. 

The  delay  in  righting  this  wrong  is  injuring  me  seriously, 
(Laughter.) 

fL  S.  T. 


DANIEL  G.  TAYLOR, 
St.  Louis. 

October  18th,  1911. 
Personal. 

Dear  Harry: 

It  is  utterly  impossible  for  me  to  say  to  }^ou  what  action  the 
Board  of  Directors  of  the  Country  Club  are  going  to  take.  I  was 
not  present  at  the  last  meeting  and  have  not  heard  what  action 
was  taken.  I  am  afraid  that  you  take  an  exaggerated  view  of 
the  importance  of  the  attitude  of  the  club  on  the  subject. 

Sincerely, 
(Signed)  Dan. 

H.  S.  Turner,  Jr.,  Esq., 
5023  Delmar  Blvd., 
St.  Louis,  Mo. 


H.  S.  TURNER,  JR., 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard, 
St.  Louis. 

October  19,  1911. 

Dear  Dan : 

Sure.  It's  only  a  good  joke  now — but  it  was  very  serious 
when  you  all  sat  around  the  board  and  proceeded  to  put  the  knife 
into  me. 

You  say  you  don't  know  what  the  board  is  going  to  do,  but 
you  said  to  me  at  the  Racquet  Club,  in  the  following  words : 

—63— 


"If  that's  your  attitude  you'll  get  what's  coming  to  you. 
I'll  advise  the  board  to  not  answer  your  letters."  So  that's  the 
reason  I  wrote  to  you. 

G.  H.  W.  has  given  me  his  verbal  promise  that  he  will  rec- 
ommend to  the  board  that  they  write  me  their  reasons  for  their 
letter,  but  I  am  in  the  position  of  the  small  boy  who  was  with 
his  father  when  they  met  a  man  who  had  just  moved  into  the 
country.  "Come  out  and  see  me  sometime,"  said  the  man  from 
the  country,  "And  bring  the  boy.  We  have  a  fine  apple  or- 
chard, and  ponies  to  ride,  and  a  fine  hay  loft."  The  father  of 
the  boy  thanked  the  man  and  was  about  to  pass  on  when  he  felt 
a  tugging  at  his  coat:  "Papa,"  said  the  boy,  "Ask  that  man 
when." 

I  know  the  Country  Club  is  going  to  give  me  a  reason  all 
right.  Yes,  I  know  that,  but  what  I'm  trying  to  get  at  now  is 
when,  and  I  thought  naturally  if  you  had  the  power  to  prevent 
their  answering  my  letters,  according  to  your  own  statement,  that 
it  was  reasonable  to  assume  that  you  had  the  power  to  induce 
them  to  answer  them,  hence  my  note. 

I  agree  with  you  that  the  whole  thing  is  an  excellent  joke, 
but  unfortunately  very  few  have  as  keen  a  sense  of  humor  as  you 
and  I. 

Sincerely, 
(Signed)    H.  S.  Turner. 

Hon.  Dan'l  S.  Taylor, 

Third  National  Bk.  Bldg., 
St.  Louis,  Mo. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


The  following  correspondence  is  fun,  pure  and  simple.  There 
is  no  malice  in  it,  and  as  every  one  knows,  there  can  be  no  sin 
without  malice.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  a  member  of  the 
Country  Club  or  not  and  have  no  idea  of  trying  to  find  out  by 
putting  in  a  personal  appearance  on  the  grounds  of  that  insti- 
tution. However,  I  sent  my  horse  out  there,  he  not  being  as 
sensitive,  or  else  more  contemptuous  than  I  am,  and  I  received 
a  bill  for  his  board  in  due  course  of  time,  which  I  have  not  as  yet 
paid,  for  clearly  if  I  am  not  a  member  I  was  not  entitled  to  send 
my  horse  to  the  Club's  stables,  and  if  I  am  a  member  it  is 
through  no  fault  of  mine. 

H.  S.  TURNER,  JR. 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard, 
St.  Louis. 
To  The  Board  of  Governors, 

Country  Club. 
Dear  Sirs : — 

As  a  member  of  the  Country  Club,  I  wish  to  call  your  attention 
to  the  statement  made  to  me  by  Mr.  Benjamin  Gratz,  in  his  office, 
on  the  ninth  day  of  June  last. 

.  I  went  there  for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  from  him,  the 
reason  behind  your  letter  of  June  6th.  He  refused  to  say  anything 
except  "We  must  protect  the  women  of  the  Country  Club."  What 
this  had  to  do  with  the  subject  about  which  I  called  on  him,  I  do  not 
know,  but  that  it  is  a  vicious,  scandalous  and  false  statement,  there 
is  no  doubt. 

As  a  member  of  the  Club,  and  as  a  man  with  seven  sisters,  I 
submit  that  Mr.  Gratz  should  withdraw  this  statement,  or  be  asked 
to  resign  from  the  Club. 

I  shall  be  glad  to  appear  before  you  in  person,  should  I  be  re- 
quired. Yours  respectfully, 

(Signed)  H.  S.  Turner. 


H.  S.  TURNER,  JR. 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard. 
St.  Louis. 

Board  of  Governors,  Nov.  23,  1911. 

Country  Club, 
City. 
Gentlemen  :- 

I  expect  to  leave  the  city  to-night  to  be  gone  a  week,  so  if  you 
require  me  to  appear  before  you  with  regard  to  my  charges  against 
Mr.  Gratz,  kindly  postpone  the  meeting  until  my  return. 

—65— 


I  am  not  in  the  least  surprised  that  you  do  not  answer  my 
letters ;  in  fact,  I  would  be  surprised  if  you  did,  because  I  know 
you  are  advised  by  the  Honorable  Daniel  G.  Taylor. 

I  once  heard  Hon.  Daniel  G.  Taylor  express  himself  on  an 
occasion  when  the  House  of  Lords  of  England  invited  George 
Bernard  Shaw  to  speak  before  it,  and  after  that  gentleman  had  made 
a  speech  full  of  wit  and  common  sense,  the  members  of  the  House 
of  Lords  arose  in  a  body  and  solemnly  left  the  Chamber  without  an- 
swering Mr.  Shaw.  The  Honorable  Daniel  G.  Taylor  could  not 
conceal  his  admiration  of  the  insult  offered  Mr.  Shaw,  and  thought 
the  House  of  Lords  had  done  a  thing  of  dignity  and  force.  That 
was  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  the  House  of  Lords.  To-day  it  is 
an  extinct  volcano,  and  Mr.  Shaw  looms  up  a  gigantic  figure  in  the 
wrorld.  So  you  see  I  realized  from  the  first  what  the  attitude 
of  the  Board  of  Governors  of  the  Country  Club,  advised  by  the 
Honorable  Daniel  G.  Taylor,  would  be.  If  the  theory  of  evolu- 
tion was  the  survival  of  the  fattest,  I  realize  that  I  would  have  no 
chance. 

I  am  very  anxious  to  resign  from  the  Country  Club,  and  do 
not  like  to  be  placed  in  the  position  that  you  have  got  me  into, 
viz. :  that  you  will  not  accept  my  resignation  except  on  terms  no 
man  worthy  of  the  name  would  accept.  I  assure  you  that  it  is 
very  humiliating  to  me  to  belong  to  a  Club  headed  by  a  man 
guilty  of  the  statement  about  womankind  that  I  am  prepared  to 
prove  Mr.  Gratz  made. 

Yours  very  truly, 

(Signed)  H.  S.  Turner. 


H,  S.  TURNER,  JR. 
5023  Delmar  Boulevard, 
St.  Louis. 

Board  of  Governors,  January  17,  1912. 

New  St.  Louis  Country  Club. 
Gentlemen : — 

Some  two  weeks  since  I  sent  a  letter  of  resignation  to  the  New 
St.  Louis  Country  Club,  addressed  to  Mr.  Thomas  H.  West,  Jr., 
and  received  no  acknowledgment,  other  than  a  check  for  $400.  My 
recollection  is  that  I  paid  $1000.00  for  this  stock,  and  in  addition 
several  assessments,  but  that  is  not  the  point  I  wish  to  make. 

Your  By-Laws  state  that  a  resignation  is  not  effective  until 
your  board  has  met  and  acted  on  the  same,  and  notified  the  per- 
son resigning  to  that  effect. 

I  note  now  that  there  is  a  proposition  to  sell  if  possible,  your 
present  archaic  plant  and  purchase  a  new  site  and  erect  build- 
ings thereon,  no  doubt  due  to  my  criticism.  Inasmuch  as  the 
only  members  capable  of  financing  a  thing  of  this  sort  have 
built  homes  around  the  present  Club  house,  and  their  property 
would  be  depreciated  by  the  contemplated  move,  they,  in  true 
club  spirit,  are  against  it.  Therefore,  from  three  to  five  hun- 
dred dollars  will  be  assessed  against  each  member. 

—66— 


Now  I  want  it  distinctly  understood  that  I  am  not  a  mem- 
ber of  the  New  St.  Louis  Country  Club,  your  By-Laws  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding,  and  if  you  did  not  meet  and  act  and 
notify  me,  the  fault  is  not  mine,  and  I  will  not  hold  myself  re- 
sponsible for  this  assessment.  I  do  not  consider  the  present 
mediocre  Golf  Club  worth  that  amount  to  me,  and,  as  I  do  not 
expect  to  be  in  St.  Louis  two  or  three  years  hence,  which  time  it 
would  take  to  get  a  new  site  in  running  order,  I  am  not  inter- 
ested in  the  proposition.  I  also  feel  that  the  statement  of  your 
President  to  the  effect  that  the  women  of  the  Country  Club  can- 
not be  trusted,  is  an  additional  reason  for  my  lack  of  interest. 

I  not  only  wrote  you  repeatedly  and  put  my  desire  to  re- 
sign in  every  conceivable  form,  but  allowed  my  emissary,  Mr. 
Paramore,  to  meet  with  you  in  regard  to  the  subject.  He  ad- 
vised me  afterwards,  that  your  attitude  seemed  to  be  to  "Let 
it  drop"  or  "Say  nothing  more  about  it."  Now  I  cannot  in  jus- 
tice to  myself  do  this,  and  shall  notify  you  that  under  no  circum- 
stances will  I  continue  as  a  member. 

In  view  of  the  fact  that  I  could  get  no  action  from  your 
board  I  had  contemplated  submitting  the  matter  to  the  club  at 
large,  but  that  would  have  resulted  no  doubt  in  a  request  for 
a  resignation  of  Benjamin  Gratz,  but  as  he  was  never  heard  of 
before  he  was  president  of  your  organization  and  would  no 
doubt  sink  into  complete  obscurity  if  he  resigned,  and  as  I  bore 
not  the  slightest  ill-will  toward  him,  I  decided  that  action  on  my 
part  would  not  be  fair.  It  is  true,  of  course,  that  he  might  be 
elected  President  of  the  Columbian  Club  on  his  name  alone,  but 
even  that  is  doubtful. 

Please  take  notice  that  notwithstanding  the  personal  so- 
licitation of  a  Falstaman  member  of  your  board,  I  must  decline  to 
longer  remain  a  member  of  the  club.  As  an  outsider,  I  feel  that 
I  am  free  to  take  any  action  that  I  may  see  fit,  without  the 
slightest  grounds  for  a  charge  of  unclubable  conduct. 

With  best  wishes,  I  am, 

Yours  very  truly, 
(Signed)    H.  S.  Turner. 
P.  S. — Since  dictating  the  above  I  have  learned  that  the  mem- 
bers owning  homes  surrounding  the  club  are  not  in  the  financial  con- 
dition I  imagined,  and  as  I  wish  to  do  no  injustice,  I  withdraw  the 
statement. 


—67— 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Mr.  Paramore  reported  to  me,  after  his  interview,  that 
Messers.  Walker,  West,  Gratz,  et  al.,  complained  that  I  had  not 
asked  them  to  do  anything  for  me ;  and  there  you  have  the  crux 
of  the  whole  matter.  True  enough,  I  had  only  asked  for  the 
reason  of  their  actions,  or  rather  demanded  it.  I  had  not,  on 
bended  knee,  asked  that  the  letter  be  withdrawn.  Imagine  me, 
Harry  Turner,  asking  a  Gratz  or  a  Walker  or  a  West  tor  any- 
thing! I  seem  to  hear  peals  of  Homeric  laughter.  These  gen- 
tlemen apparently  regard  themselves  as  Deities — "Ask  and  you 
shall  receive."  They  wanted  to  humiliate  me,  that  was  all.  And 
that  is  about  all  life  is,  a  perpetual  struggle  on  the  part  of  the 
proletarian  to  humiliate  the  aristocrat.  He  has  never  succeeded 
in  doing  it  and  he  never  will,  for  the  true  aristocrat  vastly  pre- 
fers annihilation,  and  hence  Christian  democracy  merely  means 
a  degenerating  standard,  until  finally  the  lowest  and  largest 
number  prevails.  The  proletarian,  by  sheer  force  of  numbers, 
eliminates  the  aristocrat,  and  is  in  turn  put  out  of  business  by 
the  Jew,  who  will  be  superseded  by  the  negro  or  some  other  low, 
anwarlike  type. 

The  fight  between  the  North  and  the  South  was  the  pro- 
letarian of  the  North  versus  the  aristocrat  of  the  South.  The 
Southerners  fought  better,  but  were  out-numbered.  The  North 
was  jealous  of  the  brains,  breeding,  culture  and  wealth  of  the 
South  and  so  made  slavery  (a  purely  abstract  question)  a  pre- 
tended issue,  just  as  though  there  was  not  a  worse  form  of 
slavery  existing  in  the  mills  of  the  North  in  the  shape  of  child 
labor  and  wage  bondage.  The  South  fought  for  its  property, 
which  it  had  bought  from  the  Northern  slave  traders,  and  then 
the  North  started  a  war  to  free  the  negro.  It  is  to  laugh.  The 
hell  of  a  lot  the  North  cared  about  the  negro.  (Or  am  I  wrong? 
Did  they  care  more  for  the  black  man  than  they  did  for  their 
own  flesh  and  blood?)  The  North  wanted  to  destroy  the  aris- 
tocracy of  the  South  and  slavery  was  the  catch  word  used  to 
do  it. 

And  still  the  fight  goes  merrily  on.  If  one  is  superior 
mentally,  physically,  genealogically  and  financially,  he  will  be 
overpowered  in  some  other  direction  by  hosts  of  his  inferiors. 
The  usual  method  is  to  adopt  "morality"  as  a  slogan,  just  as 
though  the  object  of  morality  was  not  to  create  just  such  a  type 
of  aristocrat ;  or,  if  the  reverse  be  true,  and  the  superior  man  by 
mental,  physical,  genealogical  and  financial  standards  is  an  im- 
moralist,  then  is  not  "morality"  the  thing  to  be  questioned  and 
not  the  superior  man?  In  other  words,  if  so-called  immoral  men 
are  superior  in  every  other  valuation,  is  it  not  possible  that  we 
have  a  false  concept  of  "morality,"  and  that  the  abstraction 

—68— 


should  be  attacked  rather  than  the  individual?  Mental,  physical 
and  financial  cripples  are  "moral"  perforce,  just  as  eunuchs  are, 
but  is  the  eunuch  a  superior  being  because  he  is  sexless,  and  is 
not  the  creation  of  the  superior  man  the  aim  of  life?  Socrates, 
the  preacher  of  virtue,  was  both  impotent  and  hideous  to  look 
upon.  "Verily,  many  times  have  I  laughed  at  those  weaklings 
who  think  they  are  good  because  they  have  lame  paws."  Talk 
of  virtue  to  young  men  and  you  encourage  solitary  vice ;  talk  of 
vice  to  old  men  and  you  will  stir  up  yearnings  that  will  cause 
them  to  hate  you. 

Vice  is  a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien 
As  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen. 
But  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  its  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace. 

Did  Pope  intend  to  mean  that  vice  improves  on  ac- 
quaintance and  is  not  so  bad  as  it  appears  at  first  blush?  If 
so,  I  do  not  agree  with  him.  I  think,  however,  Pope  intended 
to  convey  the  impression  that  vice  is  frightful,  but  he  did  not 
succeed  in  making  himself  clear.  However,  vice  is  the  result  of 
the  ideal  of  virtue,  which  is  an  impossible  ideal,  but  are  not  all 
ideals  impossible  and  are  they  not  therefore  ugly  and  mis- 
chevious  in  that  they  disparage  that  which  is  real  and  true  in 
favor  of  that  which  is  false  and  unattainable,  and  hence  lead  to 
misery  and  morbidity? 

This  was  Ibsen's  sole  idea.  All  of  his  works  are  variations 
of  this  one  theme. 

That  men  prefer  virtue  in  a  woman,  in  a  physical  sense,  is 
not  true.  Men  of  means,  i.  e.,  free  men,  seem  to  lean  the  other 
way.  The  man  of  the  world  prefers  the  woman  of  the  world.  To 
be  obsessed  with  chastity  in  a  woman  is  to  be  obsessed  with 
the  physical.  Virgins  often  have  no  souls.  How  could  they?  for 
to  extirpate  a  part  of  life  is  to  extirpate  it  all.  The  man  who 
marries  a  woman  because  she  is  virtuous,  loves  respectability 
(i.  e.,  the  opinion  of  others),  or  licentiousness,  more  than  he 
does  the  woman. 

Oh,  the  amount  of  misery  and  death  and  destruction,  I  have 
seen  this  belief  in  "morality"  cause.  How  could  immorality 
(i.  e.,  sex  relations  outside  of  the  sanction  of  the  church)  cause 
suicide,  murder,  degradation,  abortion,  social-evil,  etc.,  were  it 
not  for  a  belief  in  the  sanction  of  the  church?  And  yet  a  be- 
lief in  the  sanction  of  the  church  is  not  as  strong  and  cannot  be 
as  strong  at  the  instinct  to  procreate.  How  could  it  be?  To  be- 
lieve that  it  is,  is  to  have  cause  and  effect  so  fundamentally  con- 
fused that  happiness,  even  contentment,  even  temporary  peace 
of  mind,  is  impossible. 

And  at  its  best,  to  what  does  this  belief  in  "morality"  lead? 
To  nothingness,  to  nihilism,  for  those  who  are  economically 
free.  Immorality  is  a  compromise  between  nirvana  and  love, 
and  so  long  as  love  is  spat  upon  in  favor  of  ease  or  respectability 
or  virtue,  so  long  will  immorality  be  in  the  ascendancy,  as  at 
present. 

—69— 


Men  preach  "morality"  (and  not  o-ne  of  them  is  without 
"sin"),  because  they  wish  to  convey  the  impression  that  they  are- 
chaste,  that  is,  superior,  to  ordinary  mortals.  It  would  be  noth- 
ing more  than  cheap  self-deception,  this  assumption  of  superiori- 
ty and  hardly  worthy  of  notice,  were  it  not  that  this  preaching 
of  morality  by  whited  sepulchers  deceives  fine,  pure,  strong, 
sincere,  passionate  natures  (to  whom  chastity  is  terribly  difficult, 
if  not  impossible)  into  a  belief  in  their  own  unworthiness,  often 
causing  them  to  become  misanthropes,  even  suicides.  Cheap., 
paltry  people,  to  whom  deceit  is  second  nature,  and  to  whom 
passion  is  merely  curiosity,  manage  very  nicely.  To  judge  men 
by  moral  law,  which  is  an  artificial  standard  invented  by  the 
weak,  impotent  and  degenerate  herd  in  order  to  overpower  the 
strong,  free,  life-giving  individual,  is  to  reverse  the  true  purpose 
of  life. 

The  object  of  baseball  is  not  to  amuse,  nor  to  make  money  ? 
it  is  to  produce  a  Ty  Cobb.  The  object  of  life  is  the  same  in  a 
biological  and  world  sense.  If  virtue  interferes  with  this  pur- 
pose, away  with  it.  If  vice  interferes  with  it,  down  with  vice. 
At  this  stage  of  civilization,  the  stronger  men  are  being  de- 
stroyed by  hosts  of  gnats  who  call  themselves  "moralists,"  and 
hence  it  were  better  to  give  "immorality"  value  in  order  to  cir- 
cumvent them.  When  virtue  per  se  becomes  desirable,  the  way 
to  restore  it  will  be  to  forbid  it.  Truly  virtuous  people,  in  the 
Roman  sense,  i.  e.,  the  strong  .and  free  and  fearless,  are  invaria- 
bly attracted  toward  that  which  is  forbidden.  If  it  be  desirable, 
to  encourage  exceptional  men  and  women  toward  certain  ac- 
tions, forbid  those  actions.  Exceptional  men  and  women  have 
no  fear  and  the  forbidden  to  them  has  untold  fascinations. 
This  all  psychologists  know.  As  Wilde  puts  it:  "Women  should 
be  happier  than  men — so  much  more  is  forbidden  them." 

If  virtue  were  forbidden  by  the  bourgeoisie,  and  the  penalty 
for  it  were  death,  I  might  perhaps  become  so  virtuous,  that  com- 
pared to  me  Caesar's  wife  would  have  been  a  Cleopatra. 

I  Love  Christ  and  Machiavel,  Nietzsche  and  the  Pope,  Mary 
Magdalene  and  The  Virgin  Mary,  God  and  the  convict,  my 
Father  and  myself.   I  hate  the  Bourgeoisie. 

When  we  no  longer  believe  in  God,  as  at  present,  we  must 
believe  in  men,  but  when  men  are  all  equal,  theoretically,  as  in  a 
democracy,  that  is  impossible ;  so  logically  as  night  the  day, 
nihilism  follows ;  and  after  that,  the  discovery  that  men  are  not 
equal,  which  means  the  end  of  the  theory  of  democracy  (even 
Christianity).  The  discovery  that  one  great  individual  is  worth 
numberless  thousands  of  mediocre  men  is  the  beginning  of  the 
rennaissance — of  the  pyramid — with  the  aristocratic  thinker  and 
poet  at  the  top,  the  slave  at  the  bottom  and  all  the  varying  ranks 
in  proper  position  between,  which  is  the  natural  order  of 
society. 

Only  the  aristocrat  is  fit  to  govern,  in  that  he  understands 
and  sympathizes  with  all  classes,  because  he  has  in  him  the 
blood  and  traditions  of  all  classes.    The  proletarian  cannot  un- 

—70— 


derstand  the  aristocrat,  because  the  latter  is  on  higher  ground 
and  has  a  larger  vision.  One  can  remember  what  one  has  been, 
even  generations  before,  but  only  philosophers  can  vizualize 
what  they  are  becoming.  Woodrow  Wilson  is  a  ruler.  How 
•clever  of  him  to  allow  Bryan,  of  the  Bourgeoise  (the  fish  out 
of  water  at  present),  to  have  his  own  way. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

There  was  some  additional  Country  Club  correspondence 
which  I  seem  to  have  mislaid,  It  was  not  important ;  in  fact 
none  of  it  was  important,  save  as  a  rack  on  which  to  hang  some 
of  my  pet  theories,  also  some  of  Nietzsche's,  or  perhaps  it  would 
be  better  to  say,  furnished  tangible  evidence  of  the  correctness  of 
those  theories.  This  lost  correspondence  consisted  of  a  sweet 
letter  from  Gratz,  in  which  he  expressed  kindly  feelings  tor  me 
and  hoped  that  I  would  make  of  myself  "a  decent,  reliable  and 
respectable  citizen."  I  replied  to  him  in  a  proper  spirit  of  hu- 
mility, such  as  one  should  adopt  toward  one's  Saviour,  and  ex- 
plained that  he  should  have  added  the  words  "like  me"— after 
"citizen" — also ;  that  I  had  no  desire  to  be  a  "fellow  citizen"  at 
all.  Afterwards  I  sent  the  file  of  correspondence  to  a  friend 
in  St.  Louis.  He  returned  it  with  a  note  somewhat  as  follows : 
■"Interesting,  but  what  a  waste  of  good  brain  stuff,  what  a  cast- 
ing of  pearls  before  swine.  You  must  conserve  yourself  for  big- 
ger things." 

Of  course  he  was  right,  in  a  sense,  but  I  could  see  no  reason 
why  I  should  not  continue  to  amuse  myself  at  the  Country 
Club's  expense,  so  long  as  I  saw  fit,  and  really  nothing  is 
wasted — it  can't  be;  and  so  I  wrote  this  book  at  odd  moments. 
Intellectual  fun  is  the  only  kind  in  which  one  may  indulge  in  a 
democracy  without  making  oneself  liable  to  arrest,  and  even  then 
he  isn't  safe,  but  of  all  monotonous  things  a  feeling  of  safety  is 
the  quintessence.  Whenever  I  hear  a  man  pleading  for  "love" 
and  "justice"  and  "peace,"  I  know  he's  a  he-woman,  a  non- 
entity, a  decadent.  Love  should  never  be  spoken  of.  It  is  too 
delicate  a  thing  to  handle.  To  mention  it  vulgarizes  it.  One 
should  live  dangerously.  To  try  to  live  safely  is  not  to  live  at 
all.  Only  he  who  is  forever  trying  to  make  himself  safe  is 
always  in  a  state  of  fear,  and  nothing  in  this  world  is  as  bad  as 
the  fear  of  it.  As  for  "justice,"  I  doubt  if  God  Himself  knows 
what  it  is,  but  that  all  men  are  entitled  to  the  same  treatment,  it  is 
surely  not. 

—71— 


I  think  the  club  was  right  in  requesting  my  resignation. 
That  we  secured  a  divorce  was  a  good  thing  for  both  of  us. 
For  them  to  not  state  the  reason,  however,  was  an  unnecessary 
attempt  to  be  vindictive.  The  club  bored  me,  and  I  bored  the 
club,  in  that  I  did  not  always  allow  the  members  to  enjoy  that 
smug  complacency,  which  is  the  ultima  Thule  of  the  Pharisee.  If 
one  wishes  the  peace  of  the  Walt  Whitmann  cow,  one  must  expect 
to  be  milked. 

In  all  of  my  knocking  about  the  world,  from  one  coast  to 
another,  and  from  one  country  to  another,  and  among  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  people,  I  have  observed  that  invariably  where 
money  is  concerned  men  are  treacherous,  but  that,  I  have  always 
held,  is  the  system's  fault  and  not  the  men's,  and  hence  is  to  be 
accepted  as  a  fact,  and  in  no  way  enters  into  the  realm  of  psy- 
chology. This  case,  however,  is  one  in  which  all  of  the  usual  mo- 
tives are  lacking,  and  it  remained  for  me  to  discover  the  motive, 
and  thus  add  my  little  bit  to  philosophy.  It  is  geographical, 
too,  in  a  way.  It  could  not  have  occurred  in  any  other  than  a 
provincial  community.  But  as  Nat  Goodwin,  the  actor  (though 
better  known  as  the  husband  of  his  country),  once  remarked  to 
me  anent  an  unfair  criticism :  "You  have  to  go  to  St.  Louis  to 
discover  that  you're  rotten." 

"Oh,  pshaw,  Nat,"  I  replied,  "it  is  better,  as  Caesar  says,  to 
be  first  in  a  village  than  second  in  Rome." 

But  Nat  wouldn't  let  it  pass.  "If  you're  first  in  St.  Louis 
you'll  be  last  in  Rome  or  anywhere  else,"  he  said,  and  then  added 
in  his  dry  way,  "that  is,  if  you  hustle." 

We  hear  St.  Louis  criticised  from  the  standpoint  of  climate. 
That  isn't  the  trouble,  for  its  climate  is  no  worse  than  that  of 
other  cities,  and,  besides,  hear  what  Samuel  Johnson  says  of  cli- 
mate.   Boswell  is  speaking: 

"I  mentioned  a  friend  of  mine  who  had  resided  long  in 
Spain  and  was  unwilling  to  return  to  Britain."  Johnson : 
"Sir,  he  is  attached  to  some  woman."  Boswell :  "I  rather  be- 
lieve, sir,  it  is  the  fine  climate  which  keeps  him  there."  John- 
son:  "Nay,  sir,  how  can  you  talk  so?  What  is  climate  to  hap- 
piness? What  proportion  does  climate  bear  to  the  complex 
system  of  human  life?  You  may  advise  me  to  go  to  Bologna 
and  live  that  I  may  eat  sausages.  The  sausages  there  are  the 
best  in  the  world ;  they  lose  much  by  being  carried." 

Not  long  since  I  met  John  Drew,  the  actor,  on  the  street 
in  New  York.  "Look  here,  Turner,"  he  said,  "I've  been  re- 
ceiving most  insulting  letters  from  a  collecting  agency  in  St. 
Louis  about  a  bill  for  automobile  hire.  Now,  I  never  hired  an 
automobile  from  anyone  but  you  out  there,  and  I  think  I  paid 
before  I  left.  Don't  think,  however,"  he  added,  "that  is  why  I 
didn't  go  to  St.  Louis  this  year." 

"Give  me  the  ten,  John,"  I  said,  "and  refer  the  collecting 
agency  to  me." 

He  did  so,  and  then  joined  me  at  lunch  and  the  money  wa? 
exchanged  for  a  broiled  pompano,  a  roasted  duck  and  a  bottle 

—72— 


of  Chamber-tin.  "Why  don't  you  come  to  St.  Louis  any  more, 
we  miss  you?"  I  asked. 

"Shhhh,"  he  answered  with  his  finger  to  his  lips,  "one 
should  never  go  where  one  is  not  wanted,  and  you,"  he  continued, 
"you  don't  seem  to  stay  there  much!" 

"Shhhh,"  I  said,  with  my  fingers  to  my  lips,  "one  should 
not  ,"  but  he  understood  without  my  finishing  the  sentence. 

There  is  no  real  reason  why  St.  Louis  should  be  a  pariah 
among  cities  any  longer ;  she  might  as  well  get  over  her  grouch 
and  smile  and  be  pleasant  like  other  places.  What  she  needs 
is  not  Carnegie  libraries  and  free  bridges ;  she  needs  one  or  two 
devoted  admirers  who  can  sense  her  hidden  charms,  and  whose 
intentions  are  honorable,  to  move  around  among  her  people — 
all  of  her  people,  from  chauffeurs  to  captains  of  industry,  and 
from  working  girls  to  the  socially  elect,  and  from  the  south 
side  to  the  north  side,  and  inject  into  them  a  get-together  spirit, 
so  that  they  all  (including  the  Board  of  Governors  of  the  Coun- 
try Club — I  would  not  ostracize  anyone)  may  come  to  a  better 
understanding,  and  make  a  religion  of  the  words  Saint  Louis. 

Oh,  for  a  great,  purifying  holocaust  of  the  dead  district. 
After  the  sacrifice  we  could  permit  the  English  insurance  com- 
panies, under  the  direction  of  Tom  Barnett  and  Bill  Crowell,  to 
build  for  us  the  American  Athens,  and  an  Athens  needs  no 
B.  M.  L.  nor  City  Club  to  advertise  it. 

When  I  said  in  an  earlier  paragraph  that  I  was  not  re- 
ligious, I,  of  course,  meant  in  an  orthodox  way.  Everyone  is 
religious  in  his  way.  A  man  could  not  be  a  waiter  unless  he 
made  a  sort  of  religion  of  being  a  waiter.  St.  Louis  is  long  on 
solid  citizens,  meaning  a  man  who  pays  his  bills  on  the  first  of 
the  month,  or  would  if  he  ran  any  bills,  and  does  absolutely 
nothing  else.  St.  Louis  on  the  other  hand  is  short  on  dilletantes 
and  court  jesters  like  myself,  and  be  it  remembered  that  no  one 
but  the  court  jester  may  tell  the  king  the  truth.  If  the  solid 
citizens  were  really  clever  they'd  endow  me  on  condition  that 
I  never  leave  the  city  limits.  But  permit  me  to  say  that  I  will 
not  accept  a  contract  with  the  city  unless  it  is  endorsed  by 
Tom  Randolph,  Russell  Gardner  and  Jack  Thompson,  and  yet 
Thos.  H.  West,  of  the  Frisco  Railroad,  says  that  I  am  not  a  good 
business  man.  He  must  have  overlooked  the  fact  that  I  have 
traded  St.  Louis  for  New  York,  even.  He  has  never  made  as 
good  a  bargain  as  that,  I  am  sure,  unless  the  Frisco  receivership 
should  turn  out  to  be  one. 

What  Goodwin  said  at  that  time  was  as  true  as  any  statement 
ever  is.  But  St.  Louis  has  changed  since  then  and  for  the  bet- 
ter. After  the  World's  Fair  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Philis- 
tines, headed  by  a  misguided,  narrow-visioned  fanatic  in  the  per- 
son of  Joseph  W.  Folk,  and  it  has  been  sick,  very  sick,  ever 
since,  but  it  is  now  convalescent.  One  standing  off  and  look- 
ing at  it  from  a  distance  can  see  that  it  is  improving:  perhaps 
not  commercially,  but  for  St.  Louis  to  be  ambitious  commercially 
(in  comparison  with  Chicago  or  New  York),  would  be  as  if  I 

—73— 


Were  to  tfy  and  compete  with  the  Steel  Trust  in  the  matter  e>f 
making  money.  St.  Louis  is  destined  to  be  the  center  of  art, 
culture  and  literature  of  the  United  States.  It  is  to  be  a  city 
of  tine  homes  and  line  people,  with  ideals  above  the  Business 
Men's  League.  It  has  produced  three  poets  who  have  at- 
tracted attention  as  far  away  as  London.  I  refer  to  Orrick 
Johns,  Zoe  Akins  and  Sara  Teasdale.  William  Marion  Reedy  is 
looked  upon  as  one  of  America's  great  critics  in  literary  circles ; 
Augustus  Thomas  is  constantly  referred  to  as  our  greatest  play- 
wright. (Sad,  but  true.)  Pulitzer  was  the  greatest  journalist 
the  world  has  known ;  Clark  McAdams  is  a  more  reliable  and 
sweeter  humorist  than  Mark  Twain,  and  the  St.  Louis  woman 
stands  out  as  a  splendid  creature  wherever  one  finds  her. 

There  must  be  some  quality  about  the  Mississippi  River  which 
sweetens  men,  for  it  has  produced  a  M'cAdams  and  a  Clemens,  and 
there,  too,  is  Henry  Turner,  of  Ellistoun,  on  the  bluffs  overlook- 
ing the  junction  of  the  Missouri  and  the  Mississippi.  He,  also, 
is  a  poetic  dreamer.  He,  too,  seems  to  have  absorbed  some  of 
the  repose  and  sweetness,  tenderness  and  strength  which  the 
great  stream  seems  to  communicate  to  her  lovers.  To  have 
never  heard  his  merry,  musical,  explosive  laughter,  to  have 
missed  its  tonic  quality,  is  to  have  been  robbed  of  one  of  the  real 
joys  of  life. 

I  wonder  if  all  seriousness  is  not  physiological  or  rather 
pathological.  There  is  some  connection  between  an  over-seri- 
ous mind  and  a  sick  body,  but  here  is  a  question  of  cause  and 
effect  that  is  too  much  for  me.  I  can  find  no  starting-point — 
no  thing  to  grip  in  endeavoring  to  determine  whether  ill-health 
causes  seriousness  or  seriousness  causes  ill-health.  There  are 
certain  diseases,  of  course,  which  cause  a  sense  of  gaiety,  a  feeling 
of  optimism — locomotor  ataxia  for  instance — but  they  are  dis- 
eases of  the  brain.  I  am  rather  inclined  to  the  opinion  that  a 
fixed  idea,  causing  one  to  be  over-serious  for  long  periods  will 
produce  a  pathological  condition  physiologically.  Mere  guess- 
work, however.  I  have  never  been  serious  for  a  long  enough 
period  to  damage  my  own  health,  nor  do  I  intend  to  be  in  the 
cause  of  science.  Instead  I  have  purchased  a  cruising-cabin 
boat  and  will  spend  the  winter  on  the  bosom  of  the  mother  of 
waters  somewhere  between  St.  Louis  and  the  Gulf,  in  an  effort 
to  absorb  some  of  the  quality  of  insouiciance  which  she  seems 
to  dispense  to  those  whom  she  nurses. 


— ?4— 


CHAPTER  XVIL 


I  am  an  optimist  against  my  will.  I  wish  to  be  a  pessimist, 
for  a  pessimist  can  have  no  disappointments,  but  I  cannot  repress 
my  feeling  of  optimism.  The  world  is  hell-bent  toward  nihil- 
ism, which  is  a  condition  of  no  ideals,  no  beliefs,  absolute  skep- 
ticism— in  short,  decadence  (Omar  Kyamism — witness  the  increased 
use  of  alcohol  per  capita)  ;  a  condition  through  which  the 
world  must  pass,  before  it  experiences  another  great  ascending, 
healthy,  exuberant  period.  Everything  points  to  the  conclusion 
that  we  are  on  the  eve  of  violent  and  fundamental  changes  in 
valuations,  particularly  moral  valuations.  The  decline  of  the  in- 
fluence of  the  church  is  a  healthy  sign.  It  indicates  ultimate 
world  improvement,  a  higher  morality.  We  dare  to  live  now 
for  this  world.  We  no  longer  require  the  promise  of  another 
existence  in  order  to  bear  this  one.  Skepticism  is  always  a  sign 
of  convalescence.  To  be  not  afraid  to  question,  indicates  good 
spirits.  Faith  (the  will  to  believe  that  which  we  know  is  not 
true)  is  degeneracy ;  weariness,  the  desire  to  place  the  responsi- 
bility on  someone  else.  If  one  claims  to  have  faith  in  me,  I  un- 
derstand the  meaning  of  that.  It  is  that  he  believes  I  have 
something  to  give  away,  something  for  nothing,  and  he  is  willing 
to  take  something  for  nothing,  which  is  a  characteristic  of  the 
descending  man. 

In  a  democracy,  which  is  only  incipient  nihilism,  all  one 
has  to  do  to  gain  distinction  is  to  remain  quiet,  to  not  degener- 
ate, which  is  perhaps  the  better  plan,  for  if  he  exerts  himself  to 
ascend  in  a  decadent  period,  he  will  go  so  high  that  he  cannot 
be  seen.  The  higher  one  soars  the  smaller  he  appears  to  those 
who  cannot  fly.  In  an  age  such  as  this,  one  must  be  contemptu- 
ous of  the  mob  that  he  may  not  lose  confidence  in  himself  and  go 
with  it. 

During  Nietzsche's  life,  for  instance,  only  the  soles  of  his 
feet  were  visible  to  the  next  highest  man.  Now  even  an  editor 
can  see  to  his  shoe  tops  and  hence  imagines  that  he  is  all  feet ; 
still  that  is  "progress."  He  who  ascends  to  the  point  where 
Nietzsche  can  be  looked  squarely  in  the  eye,  will  surpass  him. 
Even  Nietzsche  will  be  surpassed,  but  it  will  require  centuries  to 
accomplish  it. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


One  should  talk  and  act  as  one  feels — nothing  else  matters.. 
It  is  a  short  cut  to  one's  goal.  If  one  feels  right,  so  much  the 
better.  If  one  feels  wrong,  so  much  the  quicker  is  he  out  of  his 
misery. 

There  was  a  period  when  I  was  lacerated  by  sympathy  for 
the  poor  and  disinherited,  and  realizing  that  charity  was  not 
only  beyond  my  means,  but  that  it  was  fundamentally  a  false 
palliative,  inasmuch  as  anyone  could  see  that  it  was  like  mop- 
ping up  the  bath  room  floor  but  neglecting  to  turn  off  the  spigot, 
(an  observation  for  the  blind),  I  took  up  sociology  with  all  my  en- 
thusiasm. I  ran  the  gamut  of  ''isms,"  and  the  more  I  saw  of  them, 
the  more  skeptical  I  became  of  all  systems.  There  is  no  funda- 
mental difference  in  them ;  no  one  '"ism"  is  better  than  another, 
although  some  are  far  more  plausible  than  others.  The  only 
scheme  that  will  help  the  helpless,  even  temporarily,  is  to  en- 
large the  earth,  and  that  being  impractical,  the  survival  of  the 
fittest  theory  becomes  more  and  more  apparently  correct.  Who 
are  the  fit?  Why,  those  who  survive  under  conditions  as  they 
are,  and  will  be  for  sometime  to  come.  No  other  answer  is  pos- 
sible. The  survival  of  the  fittest,  by  some  secret  standard  of 
nature's,  seems  to  be  the  plan,  and  no  one  can  change  it,  no,  not 
even  a  Dr.  Parkhurst  or  a  Gratz. 

"Free  the  land,"  says  Henry  George  (whose  "ism"  is  the 
most  rational  of  them  all  which  is  why  I  concern  myself  with 
it).  To  what  end  please?  That  it  may  be  occupied  by  the 
hovels  of  hosts  of  the  unfit,  i.  e.,  those  who  cannot  survive  un- 
less the  land  is  freed — those  who  will  breed  like  rabbits  so  long 
as  they  have  an  inch  to  stand  on?  I  admit  Mr.  George's  solu- 
tion postpones  the  trouble,  but  only  to  make  the  problem  larger 
in  the  end.    Surely  it  solves  nothing. 

He  insists  that  land  held  out  of  use  is  at  the  bottom  of  all 
of  our  ills,  and  yet  the  only  land  that  is  beautiful  to  contem- 
plate is  that  held  out  of  use.  That  in  use  cannot  be  seen,  be- 
cause it  is  covered  with  breweries,  saloons,  slums  and  other 
hideosities.  Wheat  fields  and  grazing  lands  are  held  out  of  use, 
according  to  George.  It  is  not  strange  that  his  vision  was  lim- 
ited. Plow  could  a  printer-proletarian  evolve  a  scheme  for  any 
class  other  than  his  own?  Those  possessing  the  foresight,  the  pa- 
tience, the  will  to  be  alone — in  short,  a  philosophy  of  life — are  the 
only  ones  who  can  own  land. 

All  of  the  "isms"  are  the  result  of  what  Nietzsche  calls  the 
"herding  instinct"  of  the  proletarian — the  instinct  to  crowd  together 
under  one  banner  or  another  temporarily  in  order  to  overthrow 
the  strong  individual,  or    perhaps    to    test    his    strength.    If  I 

—76— 


fall  before  the  herd,  of  whom  I  have  become  quite  contemptu- 
ous, let  me  go,  say  I.  It  is  my  destiny.  I  am  not  strong  enough, 
but  if  the  herd  is  held  in  check  by  one  man,  no  matter  how  he 
does  it,  I'll  make  my  best  obeisance  to  him.  He  is  what  we  have 
been  searching  for,  a  real  leader,  sans  a  banner  or  an  "ism" ;  in 
short,  the  higher  type  of  man. 

Sooner  or  later  the  weak  and  degenerate  must  be  crowded 
oft  the  earth,  and  without  the  assistance  of  the  Eugenists  either. 
To  free  the  land  is  to  prolong  the  disease  and  permit  it  to  spread, 
and  in  the  end  make  the  matter  more  difficult  to  handle. 

Of  course,  if  one  observes  all  of  the  laws  he  will  perish, 
which  is  just  as  it  should  be,  for  if  one  has  not  sufficient  mental- 
ity to  see  that  the  laws  regulating  personal  conduct  are  made  by 
the  proletariat  ostensibly  to  protect  the  weak,  but,  in  reality,  to 
destroy  the  strong,  then  he  does  not  deserve  to  exist.  All  laws, 
save  property  laws,  and  those  preservative  of  life,  are  based  on 
the  theory  of  the  survival  of  the  unfit,  that  is  to  say,  the  law- 
makers really  believe  that  is  their  theory,  because  they  are  in- 
capable of  analyzing  their  own  motives.  The  fact  is  that  they, 
the  lawmakers,  crave  power  over  the  strong,  and  unconsciously, 
perhaps,  use  this  method  to  obtain  it. 

In  all  the  uisms"  one  hears  much  of  the  ''big  sob"  about 
property  being  placed  ahead  of  men.  Property  should  be  placed 
ahead  of  men.  There  is  only  a  fixed  amount  of  property.  Most 
men  do  not  know  how  to  do  anything  else  than  reproduce  them- 
selves. Births  can  and  should  be  prevented,  but  the  sum  total 
of  land  cannot  be  increased.  Men  exist  for  the  purpose  of  serving 
the  world  (and  one  higher  type  of  man  serves  it  better  than  mil- 
lions of  a  lower  caste).  The  world  does  not  exist  in  order  to 
serve  man.  That  conventional  idea  is  merely  his  childish 
egotism.  The  satisfaction  of  men  who  have  done  great  work 
is  not  translatable  into  ordinary  language,  which  average  men 
can  understand.  The  supermen  have  a  feeling  of  partnership 
with  Xature  herself,  of  serving  her  ends  and  being  served  by 
her  in  return.  Their  reward  is  an  indescribable  sense  of  power 
therefrom,  although  to  the  average  man,  they  appear  alone  and 
deserted  and  merely  eccentric.  It  is  wrell  that  they  do  usually 
appear  thus  during  their  lives,  for  if  the  mob  knew,  it  would 
crucify  them.  , 

There  is  one  way  and  one  only,  you  sentimentalists  and 
underhanded  cravers  after  power,  you  sneakers  under  the  tent, 
that  you  can  make  the  last  man  equal  to  property  and  that  is 
by  making  him  property,  i.  e.,  a  slave  ;  and  to  be  freed  of  eco- 
nomic responsibility — the  necessity  for  thought — is  a  desideratum 
for  the  slave  type  of  man. 

Whether  it  be  right  or  Avrong,  judged  by  some  abstract 
standard,  the  aristocracy  of  the  future,  the  rulers  of  the  world, 
will  be  the  land  owners.  Only  the  land  owner  can  fit  himself  to 
rule,  for  he  is  the  only  one  who  has  real  leisure  and  true  power 
and  thus  can  afford  to  be  generous  and  sympathetic.  Investment 
in    commercial   undertakings,    subject   to    strikes  and  always 

—77— 


dependent  on  management  and  legislation,  is  not,  in  a  real  sense, 
property  at  all.  Land  can  be  forg-otten  and  still  it  increases  in 
value,  so  that  the  normally  acquisitive  man  (and  all  men  are 
acquisitive  in  some  degree)  is  satisfied,  and  can  devote  himself 
to  the  study  of  government  literature  and  the  arts.  In  short,  he 
can  perfect  himself,  and  for  his  living  from  the  community,  make 
himself  valuable  to  the  community. 

Private  land  ownership  is  the  only  check  on  population. 
It  is  to  the  interest  of  the  mill-owner  and  the  mill-laborer  that 
as  many  be  born  as  possible.  No  matter  how  feeble,  each  child 
is  an  asset,  so  long  as  child-labor  is  permitted.  The  land  owner 
must  have  population  to  give  value  to  his  land,  but  it  must  be  a 
healthy  population,  able  and  inclined  to  till  the  soil,  from  which 
springs  the  finer  men  and  women.  The  land  owner  does  not 
use  up  human  material,  he  strengthens  and  develops  it,  not  that 
he  is  a  philanthropist,  but  because  it  is  to  his  interest,  and  to 
expect  human  nature  to  be  disinterested  is  not  to  comprehend 
it.  God  deliver  me  from  a  so-called  disinterested  man.  To  find 
out  another's  real  interest,  is  half  of  the  fun  of  the  game  of  life. 
It  is  to  discover  the  weak  spot — the  Achilles  heel — of  the  holy 
hypocrite. 

Labor  is  no  doubt  noble,  still  everyone  wishes  to  escape  it. 
The  Georgian  idea  is  based  on  the  theory  that  no  one  should  be 
allowed  to  escape  it,  that  one  by  his  own  efforts  must  not  endeav- 
or to  free  himself  from  the  necessity  for  labor,  and  that  he  must 
see  to  it  that  those  who  have  fought  or  worked  themselves  free 
are  put  back  into  bondage.  The  fact  is  that  there  is  no  freedom 
save  to  own  land  or  to  be  an  artist.  Everything  else  requires 
more  labor  than  it  is  really  worth.  George  would  place  the 
courageous,  independent-minded  pioneers  who  risked  life  itself 
in  unknown  dangers  (in  order  to  escape  civilization  and  acquire 
land)  on  the  same  footing  with  the  jackals  who  followed  the 
commissary  wagon. 

It  would  be  as  fair  to  say  that  one  who  repeated  the  fore- 
going, without  placing  it  between  quotation  marks,  was  my 
equal,  for  I  am  an  intellectual  pioneer. 

And  why  shouldn't  industry  be  taxed?  Is  industry,  com- 
pelled by  necessity  from  the  outside,  or  inability  to  be  calm  from 
the  inside,  the  end  of  existence?  Is  it  even  superior  to  idleness? 
To  be  able  to  be  idle  indicates  a  philosophical  temperament,  and 
the  philosopher  is  the  true  creator  of  all  values.  The  more  a 
busy  man  is  taxed,  the  busier  he  will  be.  The  more  honey  you 
take  away  from  bees,  the  more  they  will  produce.  It  is  the 
raison  d'etre  of  the  bee.  As  long  as  there  is  no  honey  in  the 
hive,  the  bee  will  continue  to  produce  it.  He  is  not  a  philosopher  ; 
he  is  a  bee.  The  ability  to  be  idle  cannot  be  taxed.  It  is  an 
inherent  quality,  and  therefore  superior,  for  idlers  are  allies  of 
Nature.   One  might  as  well  speak  of  taxing  the  lilies  of  the  field. 

And  what  do  these  prodigious  laborers  bring  forth?  Usually 
a  mouse.  I  am  weary  of  hearing  of  the  number  of  hours  Edison 
works  each  day.    What  he  has  done  seems  to  me  of  relatively 

—78— 


no  importance.  I  would  not  give  up  any  one  of  the  great  poets 
or  philosophers  for  electric  light.  If  it  came  to  the  point,  I 
should  choose  the  tallow  dip  and  the  poets,  rather  than  electric 
light  and  the  New  York  Journal.  The  busy  man  has  no  time  for 
thought.    That  is  why  he  is  so  busy. 

If  it  is  not  more  important  to  be  than  to  do ;  if  doing  does 
not  lead  to  being,  then  what  is  the  purpose  of  action? 

Marxism,  Socialism,  Anarchism.  Communism  and  Syndi- 
calism are  merely  nauseating,  but  Georgism  is  subtle  and 
poisonous  because  so  passionately  sincere  and  so  perfectly  log- 
ical, if  its  false  premise  be  accepted.  Accept  the  premise  that 
all  of  humanity  should  and  wishes  to  labor  and  that  the  world  is 
elastic,  and  Single  Tax  is  inescapable.  Eliminate  aristocracy, 
art,  literature,  beauty  and  human  nature  and  substitute  labor 
and  a  limitless  world,  and  you  will  be  perforce  a  Single  Taxer. 
Even  assume  that  slavery  is  wrong,  that  is  slavery  by  any  other 
name,  such  as  one  man  employing  another  to  work  for  him 
because  of  the  latter s  need,  and  you  will  probably  be  a  convert 
to  Single  Tax. 

Georgism  strikes  at  the  very  roots  (to  be  somewhat  plat- 
itudinous), of  our  social  system,  and  yet  suggests  no  better  one. 
It  is  potentially  more  dangerous  than  a  million  McNamaras 
would  be,  for  it  is  unanswerable  to  the  man  in  the  street  to  whom 
a  world  view  is  impossible.  Land  ownership  is  the  last  fortress 
of  the  present  order.  Our  governing  class  had  best  forget 
"white  slavery"  and  other  vagaries  of  the  minds  of  naif  legis- 
lators. "We  had  best  get  over  the  peculiarly  American  notion 
that  vice  is  crime.  We  had  best  conserve  the  energy  spent  on 
preventing  "'spooning'''  in  the  parks  and  turn  our  attention  to 
Georgism,  before  Ave  discover  that  the  fox  lias  run  awav  with 
the  cheese,  and  that  we  have  been  despoiled  of  our  birthrights, 
while  we  argued  over  non-essentials.  The  light  against  labor  has 
been  lost.    Let  us  forget  that  and  beat  Georgism  into  a  pulp. 

Imagine  the  LTiited  States  as  a  small  island  rather  than  a 
large  one  and  attempt  to  apply  Single  Tax.  Eor  instance,  there 
is  a  city,  let  us  say.  in  the  centre  of  the  island,  and  the  land  sur- 
rounding it  is  taxed  on  its  value,  created  by  the  increasing  pop- 
ulation of  the  city.  This  would  cause  the  holders  of  the  propertv 
to  erect  structures  thereon  in  order  to  prevent  its  confiscation 
by  taxation.  Of  course  the  effect  of  this  would  be  to  bring  into 
the  tax  zone  the  next  surrounding  area  of  land,  and  it  would  have 
to  be  built  upon,  thus  creating  additional  value — compounding 
it  so  to  speak.  Labor  would  be  in  great  demand,  so  that  the 
more  children  born  the  merrier.  In  fact  it  would  be  a  A'eritable 
proletariat  org}'.  But  the  question  naturally  arises,  how  long 
would  it  be  before  the  island  was  completely  covered  with  struc- 
tures to  the  water's  edge  (an  ideal  condition  from  a  Georgian  or 
labor  point  of  view),  and  how  long  after  that  before  a  real  bat- 
tle at  close  quarters  would  take  place  to  determine  who  were  fit 
and  consequently  were  to  survive?  Xo  doubt  history  would  re- 
peat itself.    The  true  ruling  class,  temporarily  dethroned,  i.  e.. 


the  aristocratic  thinkers,  would  have  foreseen  the  result  and 
prepared  against  it.  They  would  have  cornered  the  market  on 
the  sinews  of  war  and  would  destroy  all  of  the  proletariat  whom 
they  did  not  overpower,  and  after  that,  until  another  Henry 
George  sprang  up,  life  would  be  life  once  more  and  cease  to  be  an 
"ism." 

And  yet  Single  Tax  stands  at  the  top  in  the  realm  of  economics, 
which  Carlyle  has  called  "the  dismal  science,"  though  it  isn't  a 
science  at  all.  Fortunately  for  us,  Georgism  has  taken  hold  in 
England,  which  happens  to  be  a  small  island,  and  it  is  possible  it 
may  be  exploded  on  the  other  side  of  the  water  before  it  becomes 
a  fact  on  this  side.  There  isn't  an  "ism"  so  far  invented  that  is 
worth  a  shovelful  of  ashes.  Men  who  desire  to  herd  together 
under  a  banner,  reveal  by  that  very  token  their  lack  of  anything 
approaching  a  ruler  instinct.  Rulers  are  lonely,  solitary  men 
and  silent. 

It  would  be  cruel  to  teach  the  proletarian  the  meaning  of 
futurism  in  art.  Why  tell  him  that  the  immediate  future  is 
chaos,  nihilism,  and  thus  rob  ourselves  of  the  honey  he  produces 
and  himself  of  his  raison  d'etre?  Rather  let  him  think  that  he 
is  overcoming  us.  It  keeps  him  cheery  while  he  works,  just  as 
roustabouts  chant  hymns  about  another  world  while  they  carry 
bales  of  cotton.  Why  should  anything  be  accelerated  or  re- 
tarded?   Life  is  nothing  but  life,  and  none  of  us  is  God. 

Nowadays  in  our  Christian  democracy,  when  the  ruling  class 
wants  anything,  it  is  called  "class  legislation,"  but  single  tax, 
which  is  labor  legislation,  is  all  right  of  course.  All  legislation 
is  class  legislation.  How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Life  is  not  a 
Sunday  School  picnic,  held  for  the  purpose  of  pinning  a  blue  rib- 
bon on  the  most  virtuous  maiden  in  the  village.  Life  is  a  battle 
from  start  to  finish,  which  it  should  be  for  men.  I  hate  to  see 
women  in  it,  but  when  men  have  degenerated  as  at  present,  and 
women  have  surpassed  them,  the  women  must  take  up  the  fight. 
They  will  get  the  vote,  use  it  until  they  have  straightened  things 
out  for  themselves  and  then  forget  all  about  voting.  Votes  for 
women  means  that  women  want  to  be  heard.  When  they  have 
said  their  say,  I  believe  we  men  will  see  their  point,  agree  to  it, 
and  women  will  thereafter  gradually  cease  to  become  a  factor  in 
government. 

Life,  it  seems  safe  to  say,  will  always  be  a  struggle  between 
classes  and  between  individuals,  a  never-ending,  strengthening 
struggle  for  power.  Show  me  a  man  who  does  not  desire  the 
feeling  of  power  that  comes  with  knowledge  or  self-development 
— either  physical  or  mental,  and  I  will  show  you  a  decadent  or  a 
'possum.  It  is  not  the  business  of  men  to  legislate  for  the  weak. 
Conservation  of  the  race  is  woman's  sole  concern.  She  has  an 
instinct  for  the  fit.  A  true  woman  will  sacrifice  home,  honor, 
ease,  and  all  the  other  knick-knacks,  for  love,  i.  e.,  for  the  oppor- 
tunity to  mate  with  the  higher  type  of  man,  by  natural  standards, 
in  order  that  she  may  produce  something  still  higher.  All  of  the 
laws  and  punishments  that  mediocre  men  can  invent  in  the  name 

—80— 


of  "morality"  will  not  deflect  Madame  Nature  from  her  ultimate 
purpose  one  inch,  which  purpose  is  the  higher  man.  Single  tax 
which  attempts  to  arbitrarily  place  labor  higher  than  things  so 
high  that  labor  cannot  see  them,  is  contrary  to  the  scheme  of 
things.  All  laws  which  attempt  to  regulate  conduct  are  reac- 
tionary. The  owners  of  the  land  are  the  owners  of  the  world, 
and  the  owners  of  the  world  will  rule  it  sooner  or  later,  as  they 
have  done  in  former  times. 

I  am  familiar  with  life  in  most  of  the  capitals  of  the  world. 
Undoubtedly  there  are  great  numbers  in  distress,  but  nothing  in 
comparison  to  the  number  of  "representatives"  of  those  in  dis- 
tress. The  number  of  the  latter,  i.  e.,  single  taxers,  preachers, 
journalists,  novelists,  moralists  and  philanthropists  is  appalling. 
I  always  deal  with  principals. 

There  is  nothing  in  sociology.  It  was  sociology  that  pro- 
duced the  frame  of  mind  responsible  for  the  following  verse.  If 
sociology  has  ever  produced  anything  more  than  an  unpleasant 
mood,  I  have  been  unable  to  discover  it.  What  follows  is,  of 
course,  morbid  and  anything  that  causes  morbidity  must  be 
not  even  useless,  which  is  my  opinion  of  the  efficacy  of  sociology. 
I  must  have  been  reading  Henry  George  on  the  early  morning 
on  which  I  gave  birth  to  this  jeremiade : 

"Sweet,  silent  night,  you'll  soon  be  gone, 
For  in  the  East  I  see  the  dawn, 
Which  presages  the  shameful  day, 

The  garish  sun,  the  clanging  car, 
The  slowly  fading  morning  star, 
The  prelude  to  the  tragic  play. 

With  hunted  eyes,  cheeks  painted  red, 
The  weary  harlot  seeks  her  bed, 
Thrice  o'er  she's  earned  her  pay. 

I  hear  the  whistles,  loud  and  shrill, 
Those  summons  to  the  shop  and  mill, 
They  starve  who  disobey. 

And  now  the  cosmic  hippodrome 
Will  take  its  toll  from  every  home, 
The  children  from  their  play. 

I  hear  the  tread  of  many  feet 
That  hurry  ever  on  to  meet 
The  merciless  beasts  of  prey. 

Each  sweat  shop,  with  its  poisoned  air, 
Each  store  and  mill  will  take  its  share 
Of  human  toil  and  shame. 

—81— 


That  in  the  church  across  the  way, 
The  parasites  may  preach  and  pray 
In  the  Lord  Jesus'  Name, 

That  you,  my  mistress,  sleeping  there, 
May  jewels,  silks  and  satins  wear. 
Ah,  God,  a  stupid  game. 

To  speak  overmuch  at  this  time  is  not  to  know.  To  know 
is  not  to  speak.  Writers  nowadays  are  not  teachers;  they  are 
pupils.  I  am  a  human  question  mark.  I  desire  to  be  refuted.  I 
would  not  wish  to  be  dumb,  but  I  would  like  to  possess,  in 
greater  degree,  the  power  to  be  silent.  It  is  useless  to  talk  to 
will-less  decadents.  I  know  a  woman  who  has  been  beaten, 
crushed,  caluminated,  outlawed,  and  yet,  except  when  she  is  gay, 
she  is  as  silent  as  the  sphinx,  which  is  why  I  admire  her.  She 
is  on  higher  ground,  which  means  that  she  is  deeper,  than  I  am. 
When  I  have  learned  to  be  silent  (when  I  am  not  gay),  I  too, 
shall  have  mastered  life.  We  must  love  that  which  is  both  higher 
and  deeper  than  ourselves.  Cheer  up,  you  lonely  ones,  you  finer 
men  and  women,  your  day,  or  that  of  your  children,  is  not  so  far 
distant. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


But  about  the  Country  Club.  Even  my  real  friends  would  say 
nothing,  would  gaze  into  space,  and  assume  a  look  of  patient 
skepticism,  when  I  iterated  that  I  did  not  know  the  cause  of  the 
Board's  action.  I  do  not  blame  my  friends.  I  should  have  to 
know  a  man's  character  very  well,  before  I  could  believe  that  a 
body  of  so-called  respectable  men  had,  without  cause,  done  such 
a  thing  to  him.  It  is  not  reasonable.  It  is  anything  but  plausi- 
ble, and  yet  there  it  stands,  an  incontrovertible  fact  that  Daniel 
G.  Taylor,  an  attorney  in  the  Third  National  Bank  Building,  who 
has  dined  at  my  table  more  than  once,  and  at  my  father's  house 
too  often  to  enumerate  (and  it  is  no  small  matter  to  feed  Taylor)  ; 
that  Benjamin  Gratz,  a  merchant,  I  believe,  but  comparatively 
a  stranger  to  me ;  Geo.  D.  Markham,  an  insurance  ag-ent,  and  a 
casual  acquaintance,  and  one-time  competitor ;  Harry  Potter,  a 
bond  broker's  clerk,  whom  I  had  regarded  as  a  tentative  sort  of 
friend;  Thomas  H.  West,  Jr.,  a  clerk  in  the  St.  Louis  Union 
Trust  Company,  with  whom  I  was  on  more  or  less  familiar 
terms ;  George  P.  Doan,  a  commission  merchant,  whom  I  had 
known  pleasantly  for  years,  and  G.  H.  Walker,  a  stock  broker, 
did  sit  around  that  board,  and  did  knife  me  in  the  back,  out  of 
pure  deviltry,  so  far  as  I  can  learn  from  any  fact  which  they 
have  put  in  my  possession. 

It  is  possible  that  Taylor  may  have  been  the  instigator  of 
this  farce  comedy.  He  prides  himself  on  his  Machiavelian  quali- 
ties, viz.,  his  embrace  is  dangerous.  If  he  could  care  as  much  for 
some  one  else  as  he  does  for  Taylor,  the  romance  of  Paul  and 
Virginia  would  appear  as  a  vulgar  liason.  He  is  quite  capable 
of  wishing  to  undo  me,  but  I  think  lacked  the  necessary  power. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  criticise  the  Honorable  Taylor,  or  for 
that  matter  Michiavelianism,  for  I  am  aware  that  Macaulay  has 
written  an  able  defense  of  that  doctrine,  holding  that  in  an  age 
when  underhandedness  was  the  custom  and  deemed  the  quin- 
tessence of  cleverness,  that  Machiaveli  was  a  superior  man ;  I 
merely  maintain  that  "it  is  not  being  done  this  season" — that  the 
fine  Italian  hand  was  entitled  to  be  admired  in  its  day  perhaps — 
but  that  the  Honorable  Taylor  is  distinctly  out  of  fashion. 

Markham?  No,  he'd  be  afraid  to  send  a  letter  like  that 
through  the  mails,  without  consulting  his  attorney. 

Doan?  A  perfect  lady,  with  all  the  airs  and  graces  of  the 
sterner  sex;  who  would  never  take  the  initiative  in  anything  un- 
less it  were  to  run,  if  we  happened  to  meet  on  the  street. 

Thos.  H.  West,  Jr.?  A  good-natured  son  of  his  father,  who 
has  troubles  of  his  own.    No.  it  wasn't  Tom. 

Gratz?  Ne\~er.  A  kind-hearted  old  simpleton,  who  not 
only  doesn't  know  anything,  he  doesn't  even  suspect  anything. 

—83— 


While  he  paid  an  absurdly  high  price  for  the  presidency  of  the 
Country  Club,  and  would  like  to  get  his  money's  worth  by  in- 
sulting his  superiors  from  behind  that  bulwark,  the  original  let- 
ter bore  traces  of  education,  and  that  lets  Gratz  out. 

Walker?  A  great  financier  among  Parsifals,  and  a  Parsifal 
among  financiers,  but  no  Parsifal  at  his  more  serious  occupa- 
tions, bridge  and  poker.  I  place  a  ( ?)  here,  notwithstanding  his 
denials,  for  I  find  I  am  puzzled  in  trying  to  explain  to  myself 
why  he  sent  me  the  message  by  Benoist,  and  why  he  made  a 
proposition  to  withdraw  the  original  letter  if  I  would  resign. 
Why  was  he  so  desirous  of  my  elimination?  A  plain  denial  by 
him  does  not  satisfy  my  reason,  although  I  am  quite  sure  he  is 
a  man  of  the  highest  integrity.  However,  tell  me  the  sort  of 
stories  a  man  enjoys — the  kind  of  humor  he  appreciates — and  I 
can  tell  you  what  that  man  is.  Walker,  for  instance,  has  a  story 
which  I  have  heard  him  recite  numerous  times  with  great  glee. 
To  him  it  seems  to  embody  all  there  is  of  wit  and  quaint  humor. 
He  tells  it  as  having  happened  to  a  certain  great  financier  and 
high  official  in  the  Rock  Island  Railway.    It  is  about  as  follows : 

The  certain  financier  was  dining  one  evening  when  the  but- 
ler announced  a  caller,  who  was  shown  in.  He  proved  to  be  an 
old  friend  of  the  millionaire's  in  his  less  prosperous  days,  and  told 
a  story  of  hard  luck — a  big  family  and  starving  children.  The 
millionaire  listened  attentively  to  his  story,  occasionally  wiping 
a  tear  away,  and  when  the  caller  had  finished  his  recital,  turned 
to  the  butler.  "Show  him  out,  Smithers,"  he  said,  "he's  break- 
ing my  heart." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  story  originated  with  the  diabolical 
La  Rochefoucauld  and  his  valet,  but  can  be  made  to  apply  to  any 
rich  man,  although  it  seems  to  me  libelous  if  not  credited  to  its 
proper  origin. 

I  never  see  Walker  with  his  friends  but  that  I  am  re^ 
minded  of  what  a  certain  Irish  poet  and  philosopher  said  when 
he  was  asked  if  he  was  a  friend  of  Bernard  Shaw's.  "Shaw," 
replied  the  scape-goat  of  the  English  aristocracy,  "Why  he  hasn't 
an  enemy  in  the  world,"  and  then  he  added  thoughtfully,  "but 
his  friends  don't  like  him." 

My  goodness,  I  nearly  forgot  Potter.  He  is  always  being 
forgotten.    Pardon  me,  Harry.    No,  it  was  not  you. 

It  has  been  suggested  by  a  person  not  directly  connected 
with  the  Board,  that  a  woman  scorned  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
matter,  but  that  shows  a  failure  to  comprehend  my  temperament. 
I,  Gargantua  Turner,  the  rake  and  roue,  scorn  a  woman.  The 
idea  is  preposterous. 

If  I  may  be  pardoned  the  redundancy,  I  wish  to  emphasize 
the  point  that  it  is  the  psychological  question  involved  in  this 
case  that  interests  me.  Why  was  the  letter  written,  is  a  ques- 
tion that  will  not  down  in  my  mind.  I  am  so  constituted  that  I 
must  find  a  solution  to  my  queries,  if  I  would  sleep  or  eat,  and 
to  those  that  are  insoluble  from  any  facts  at  hand,  I  can  only 
apply  my  reasoning  powers.    In  this  instance  I  am  refused  data, 

—84— 


therefore  I  can  only  speculate.  It  is  a  mystery  that  perhaps  will 
never  be  solved,  but  in  my  own  mind,  I  have  settled  it,  and  in- 
tend to  think  no  more  about  it,  when  I  have  finished  this  bit  of 
typewriting  and  handed  it  to  the  publisher. 

If  the  original  letter  had  been  framed  as  follows,  all  this 
would  have  been  avoided  and  I  should  have  had  the  usual  dull 
summer.  Had  the  Secretary  of  the  Board  of  Governors  of  the 
New  St.  Louis  Country  Club  been  as  honest  and  fearless  as  he 
was  ambitious  and  cowardly,  he  would  have  written  this  sort  of 
a  letter,  in  place  of  the  one  he  did  write : 

''Dear  Mr.  Turner: 

''There  is  a  member  of  this  Board  who  is  insanely  jealous  of 
you.  We  think  without  reason.  However,  he  has  quite  a  lit- 
tle influence  over  our  financial  destinies,  and  insists  that  we  re- 
quest your  resignation.  We  regret  the  necessity  for  it,  but  as 
you  can  see  we  are  helpless.  If  you  will  resign,  it  will  relieve 
us  all  of  much  embarrassment." 

To  which  I  should  have  replied : 
"Gentlemen : 

*'My  resignation  hereby. 

"Please  assure  your  member  that  his  jealousy  is  unfounded, 
although  he  pays  my  reputation  as  a  connossieur  of  femininity 
a  most  subtle  compliment." 

And  there  the  matter  would  have  ended  and  I  would  have 
had  little  or  nothing  to  occupy  me  and  might  have  even  gotten 
into  mischief,  who  knows?  As  it  is  I  am  indebted  to  the  Board 
of  Governors  of  the  Country  Club  for  the  only  intelligent  answer 
I  received  to  my  article  called,  "W^hat  Shall  I  Do?"  but  still  the 
struggle  of  the  proletarian  to  humiliate  the  aristocrat  goes  mer- 
rily on. 

While  there  is  no  intention  on  my  part  to  point  a  moral  and 
adorn  a  tale  in  this  instance,  I  cannot  refrain  from  calling  atten- 
tion to  the  utter  futility  of  jealousy,  that  gnaweth  like  a  worm  in 
the  bud.  Here  it  is  seen  that  the  green-eyed  monster  is  at  the 
bottom  of  much  misunderstanding,  that  greatest  of  evils  to 
which  I  referred  in  one  of  my  earlier  passages.  However,  I 
have  come  to  regard  jealousy  as  a  sickness  of  the  soul  that  rav- 
ages the  intellect,  sours  the  milk  of  human  kindness  and  adds 
bitterness  to  existence — for  the  one  who  suffers  from  it.  I  could 
wish  no  worse  evil  to  befall  an  enemy  than  that  he  should  become 
jealous.  It  sometimes  leads  to  murder,  but  the  murdered  one  is 
far  better  off  than  the  murderer.  Death  is  nothing.  It  may  be, 
as  Socrates  has  observed,  the  best  thing  that  can  happen  to  a 
man.  At  least  no  one  can  argue  conclusively  to  the  contrary. 
But  to  be  jealous  would  seem  to  be  perhaps  the  worst  calamity 
to  befall  a  man.  Poor  little  Dan  Tracy's  road  was  made  a  bit 
harder  by  it,  and  he  is  as  fine  a  patrician  youth  as  one  will  meet 
in  many  a  day. 

The  world  has  been  good  to  me.  It  has  given  me  on  a  silver 
platter,  to  speak  figuratively,  what  I  see  other  men  struggling, 

—85— 


stealing  and  knifing  each  other  for.  I  am  deeply  grateful  for  life. 
I  hear  people  talking  of  things  they  take  to  put  them  to  sleep.  I 
wish  I  could  stay  awake  all  of  the  time.  No  day  (well,  very  few 
days)  have  ever  been  long  enough  for  me.  My  own  thoughts  are 
my  best  companions. 

I  am  still  interested  in  the  ego,  and  I  still  think  that  the  soul 
of  a  great  woman  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world.  One 
may  be  interested  in  a  thing,  such  as  the  ego,  however,  and  yet 
not  wish  particularly  to  preserve  it.  I  am  rather  indifferent  to 
my  own  welfare,  and  I  am  a  rather  good  fatalist.  I  would  make 
excellent  material  out  of  which  to  manufacture  a  bomb  to  be  used 
in  furthering  a  hopeless  cause.  Perhaps  a  little  of  the  fighting 
blood  of  old  General  Lee  and  the  rest  did  trickle  through  after 
all. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

And  now  to  play  my  favorite  role,  the  one  of  him  who  is  not 
without  honor  save  in  his  own  country. 

To  have  written  a  history  of  the  past  is  important,  but  to  be 
able  to  write  a  history  of  the  future — to  be  already  looking  back- 
ward at  the  future — that  is  genius.  Certain  philosophical  dis- 
coveries placed  in  combination  produce  certain  results  in  the 
realm  of  philosophy,  just  as  certain  chemicals  produce  certain 
results  in  the  chemical  world. 

This  age  of  materialism  cannot  last  much  longer.  The  types 
of  men  with  which  I  have  just  been  occupied  are  passing.  The 
man  of  "neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth,  action  nor  utterance, 
nor  the  power  of  speech  to  stir  men's  blood"  is  seeing  the  writ- 
ing on  the  wall.  We  have  wearied  of  our  toys.  We  have  con- 
quered the  sea,  the  air,  and  to  a  certain  degree,  space.  The 
whole  world  has  been  explored,  and  there  is  no  more  escape  for 
the  world-weary  people  of  the  types  of  my  ancestors.  If  one  is 
tired  unto  death  of  trickery,  knavery,  lies  and  treachery,  he  must 
stand  and  wait,  or  else  fight  for  the  return  of  the  natural  rank  of 
man.    There  is  no  other  thing  he  can  do. 

We  are  on  the  way,  though  it  is  a  long  way,  to  the  return 
to  a  view  of  life  as  it  was  in  the  ascendant  period  of  ancient 
Greece  and  Egypt.  After  nihilism,  we  are  to  reverence  blood, 
art,  poetry,  idleness,  philosophy,  beauty  and  physical  perfection 
once  more,  but  we  will,  in  addition,  reverence  that  which  the 
Athenians  did  not — the  soul  of  man,  which  means  that  we  will 

—86— 


adopt  a  healthier,  more  innocent,  less  serious  attitude  toward  the 
senses. 

We  will  forget  sociology  and  "morality,"  and  put  our  house 
in  order  for  the  coming  of  the  superman  by  building  good  roads, 
deepening  the  rivers  and  beautifying  the  world.  What  is 
the  Nietzschean  superman?  He  is  to  be  one  with  the  heart  of 
a  Christ,  the  intellect  of  a  Nietzsche,  and  the  body  of  an  Apollo. 
Visionary?  Yes,  but  what  can  be  visualized,  will  be,  or  else 
imagination  is  a  mockery,  and  my  imagination  has  never  yet 
betrayed  me.  The  only  way  we  can  help  the  lowest  man  is 
to  recognize  the  highest  when  he  comes. 

Self-preservation  is  not  to  be  the  first  law  of  life.  Soul 
preservation  is  to  be  the  first  law.  The  soul  of  the  convict  is 
to  commune  with  the  soul  of  the  virgin,  and  the  soul  of  the  Mag- 
dalene is  to  commune  with  the  soul  of  the  artist.  Life  is  to  be  life. 
Isms  will  disappear.  The  pyramid  will  take  form  again.  In  the 
meantime : 

"I  hae  a  penny  to  spend 
There  thanks  to  naebody. 

"I  hae  naething  to  lend, 
And  Fll  borrow  frae  naebody, 

"I  am  naebody's  lord 

And  I'll  be  slave  to  naebody, 

"But  I  hae  a  gude  braid  sword 
And  I'll  take  dunts  frae  naebody." 


0  7947A 


512657 


